


On the Bad Side of 25.

by conjurethemockingjay



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Hush Sound, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/M, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Past Relationship(s), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conjurethemockingjay/pseuds/conjurethemockingjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Patrick Stump was hiding a secret. It was something that he had never told anybody—not even his parents nor his siblings—because he was certain that revealing his secret to other people would let them think only one thing: he had gone completely nuts.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>That wasn’t the case at all, thank you very much.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The truth was that Patrick could predict when people are going to die. No kidding. And, actually, “predict” wasn’t the correct term to call his “gift” or “ability” or whatever at all… Patrick could see timers above people’s heads, indicating the amount of time they’ve got left to live.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>After years of witnessing multiple near-death accidents and the untimely passing of people he knew and even those he didn’t know—which he was clearly aware that he could have stopped and saved their lives if he had only tried—Patrick thought that he had lived long enough to see some good friends die, and he knew that it was probably a dangerous time to be a friend of his.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He was on the bad side of twenty-five.</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Note:** The idea of this story initially came up to me after scrolling through my Tumblr dashboard and finding this certain post which gave me some ideas to write this (but I couldn’t exactly remember which post was that), and also after my friend, Kim Patrick, had suggested that I should write something that is fitting for the science fiction genre since I have never tried writing one. The other ideas for this one probably got in my head after some late-night reading of random fan-fictions and watching of some music videos of _Fall Out Boy_ , and I guess I should be thankful for that.  
> This is my first time to write a sci-fi story (and, honestly, I’m really excited about this one), so please go easy on me, and I do hope that you’ll enjoy reading.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Tempting, but only the plot and idea of the story is mine, not the characters, although I wish that they were. A girl could dream. They’re loosely based and named after the members of the American pop punk band, _Fall Out Boy_ , and other bands associated with them such as _My Chemical Romance_ , _Cobra Starship_ and _Panic! at the Disco_.  
>  The title of the story is from Patrick Stump’s song, _“Bad Side of 25”_ , which is off his Soul Punk album.  
> \- Daphne

➽ **_Age 1._**

At the age of one, when everything in the world was still simple in the eyes of a mere child, Patrick was blinking curiously at the funny shapes that were hovering his mom’s head. He and his mom were in the dining area; little Patrick sitting on his high chair and his mom sitting beside him as she made airplane noises while moving the spoonful of mashed fruits in circles before gently pushing the spoon inside the toddler’s open mouth, cooing at Patrick as she wiped the excess food that had escaped from the sides of his small mouth with a bib.

It wasn’t actually the first time that Patrick had seen the electric-blue-yet-almost-transparent-colored shapes. From what his young, innocent brain could remember, he had also seen those shapes above the heads of other people.

Stretching out a tiny hand as an attempt to reach for the shapes that were floating above his mom’s head, Patrick had squeaked out a noise which sounded a lot like “pretty”, still staring at the shapes in awe. He wanted to touch them, know what it feels like, know if he could play with them, know if he could put it in his mouth or not.

His mom was smiling down at him as she placed the spoon down. She seemed to notice that Patrick was staring at something above her head, so she looked up for a second, finding nothing. When she had looked back down at Patrick with an eyebrow slightly raised, she gently ruffled the soft tresses of his dirty blond hair and scooted her chair forwards to get closer to the toddler. “What is it, honey?” his mom had asked him. “What’re you looking at?”

“Pretty,” Patrick blubbered out again, still blinking up at the shapes as he wriggled his little fingers up in the air. His mom had laughed softly at his actions, nuzzling her nose with his before slowly putting his arm down, kissing both of his tiny palms which made him giggle and completely forget about the shapes above her head. Mama Stump then resumed in feeding him with more of the mashed fruits, making airplanes noises again.

 

➽ **_Age 7._**

At age seven, on the second week of summer vacation, Patrick was playing basketball with some of his friends from school who also happened to be neighbors with him.

Well, he wasn’t _actually_ playing with them… Patrick was watching more than playing, because he decided that he didn’t want to break his nose, go home with blood all over the front of his t-shirt, and wheezing because of a sudden asthma attack after playing basketball with his friends one time _again_. That made his mom pass out, so, he swore to himself to never play any physical activities again without safety protection—especially a _nose guard_ —and without an inhaler.

He and his friends were in a public basketball court in a small park near their neighborhood. Patrick was straightening the knitted cap on top of his head as he sat on one of the bleachers and watched his friends pass the ball to their teammates, his legs swinging as he hummed a tune to himself. He could hear his friends shouting at each other even if he was a couple of meters away from them (and from the ball)—“Hey, come on, pass it here!” “Can’t you make a decent shoot?” “You can’t just run away with the ball, you idiot! That’s travelling!”—and cheering and hooting loudly if they managed to score.

Patrick could still see the floating numbers—not shapes, he realized, when he had finally learned what the differences between numbers and shapes are in school—above people’s heads, but the problem was that he didn’t know what those numbers were for. He guessed that perhaps those were some kind of ID number for each person, and every person in the world had a different code, just like those that they’ve got in school, but he thought that maybe it wasn’t since the numbers were moving… _backwards_.

And another thing that had greatly bothered Patrick was that he couldn’t see any numbers above his head. Even when looking through a mirror, the space above Patrick’s head was completely empty which made him more puzzled than ever.

A year ago, Patrick had tried asking his parents about what those numbers are for, but they only gave him a funny look and his dad had firmly told him, “Rick, there aren’t any numbers above our heads—nor _anyone_ ’s heads, okay? I don’t know what silly cartoon show you’ve been watching with Megan and Kevin these days, but that is just really impossible.”

“No, it’s not,” Patrick insisted with a pout, because he could _see_ them, and it was just right _there_. But they clearly didn’t believe him and they probably thought that he was just sleepy already since it was already past his usual bedtime and he was still up, which was why his parents had sent him back to his room that night.

That same night, before Patrick had gone to bed, he had asked his siblings about the numbers that he was seeing ever since he could remember, but they had only looked at Patrick as if he had grown an additional head on his shoulder and told him to go to sleep.

After that, Patrick had never uttered a word about the numbers above people’s heads anymore, no matter how much he wanted to know what those were for. He didn’t want his family to think that he was just making things up from the TV shows and movies that he had seen, and he didn’t certainly want them to take him to the hospital for a mental check-up.

Patrick had been suddenly snapped back to reality when somebody had asked him, “Don’t you want to play with them, Patrick?”

Only when he had turned his head towards the origin of the voice did he recognize who had asked him a question—Frank Iero. He was studying in the same school as Patrick—but he was three years ahead of him—and they were living in the same block. Even with their three-year gap, Frank and Patrick had pretty much the same height. Both of them were still hoping for growth spurt, though.

Blinking slowly at Frank in confusion, Patrick had managed to shake his head and focus his eyes at him. “Not really,” he mumbled, scrunching his nose a little and tearing his eyes away from Frank’s face. He looked over at their other friends who were still playing basketball for a second before looking back at him. “You do remember the nosebleed incident, right?”

A look of confusion flashed across the older boy’s face, but then Frank had quickly hid it and grinned widely. “Oh, right,” Frank chuckled, making Patrick sweep his eyes back to his with a scowl, but he could feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment at the memory. He figured that Frank might have noticed him blushing furiously since he had laughed louder.

Frank’s bike was slightly leaning against the edge of the bleacher that Patrick was sitting on, and he had straightened it up before hopping on. “Cheer up, Stump,” Frank grinned at him as he kicked the bike stand. “Anyway, I gotta go.”

“Already?” Patrick blinked at Frank again before he had glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Isn’t it still too early?”

“Yeah, I know, but my mom promised me that I could play video games for as long as I want if I come back an hour or more before my curfew,” Frank answered with a nonchalant shrug, quickly running a hand over his dark hair. Still smiling at Patrick as he placed one foot on a pedal, he told him, “I’ll see you and the others tomorrow, then.”

Patrick merely nodded and didn’t say anything else as he watched Frank pedal his way out of the park. For some reason that he didn’t understand, Patrick felt the need to watch his friend for a while, and so he did.

Frank was a few meters away from the sidewalk when Patrick had noticed that there was a sudden change on the numbers that were floating above Frank’s head. Out of the blue, it turned into _nine seconds_ , and Patrick was sure that it wasn’t like that when he and Frank were still talking not so long ago.

A blur of red had caught Patrick’s eye, and he realized that it was a fast-moving car with a drunken man driving it, Patrick deduced, since the car was going in a rather wobbly path, the car was being driven on the sidewalk instead of the road, and whoever the driver was had completely ignored the blinking red light.

The hairs at the back of Patrick’s neck had all stood up when he suddenly realized one thing— _Frank was going to get hit by the car_.

With wide and alarmed eyes, Patrick had focused back on the numbers above Frank’s head. The usual electric blue color of the numbers was replaced to crimson red now, and just from that, everything made sense to him. Everything just clicked into place in Patrick’s head.

Now, he knew what those blasted digits meant. The numbers indicated _the amount of time that a person had left to live._

Before he knew it, Patrick’s feet were both beneath him and were moving against the bricked pathway with speed and energy that he never knew he possessed, the surroundings were all blurred away into almost nothing, and he could hear the sound of his own voice, raw and loud and scared and desperate, echo throughout the park. “Frank! Frank, look out!”

It was down to _five seconds_.

The older boy didn’t seem to notice that a red car was moving so fast towards him, but Patrick had thanked whoever was listening to his silent prayers since Frank had slowed down a little as he turned his head towards Patrick. His dark eyebrows were knitted together, his face showing a mixture of irritation and confusion, and he had barely uttered out the words, “Patrick? What’s happening?” as Patrick watched Frank being thrown sideways from his bike in slow motion.

Everything happened so fast—Patrick’s heart was pounding loudly against his chest as he ran as fast as his feet could; the red car had hit the front wheel of Frank’s bike, causing the boy to lose his balance and fly mid-air before landing shoulder-first on the grass harshly; the car had crashed against a streetlamp, which had fallen to the sidewalk; glass shards had scattered everywhere; and Patrick could hear screams from their friends who were still on the court. He knew that they were running towards Frank to help as well.

The accident happened within a couple of seconds, but for Patrick, everything had slowed down into a snail’s pace, as if the gods or whoever had magical powers had slowed time so that he could see every single detail during the crash as a way to torture him, knowing that Frank was one of his closest friends.

Frank had screamed out in pain—and the sound he let out had reminded Patrick strangely of a howling wolf—as Patrick quickly went over to his injured friend. Frank was clutching his left shoulder with his free hand, his face scrunched up as he cried in pain, and there was a trickle of blood running down the side of his head.

Patrick noticed that other people were starting to crowd over them. One of them had her phone out and immediately dialled 9-1-1 and one of them had introduced himself as a doctor and had helped in giving Frank a makeshift tourniquet out of the piece of cloth that someone else had offered as a first aid treatment while waiting for the ambulance. A few officers from homeland security had quickly come over to investigate about what just happened.

For a moment, as Patrick kneeled there on the grass by his friend’s side and held Frank’s free hand while the doctor had checked his obviously broken shoulder, softly shushing his cries while the others used their own bikes to inform Frank’s parents about what just happened to their son, he tried to process everything that had happened that afternoon, especially since he had almost seen one of his friends die right before his eyes. He was still in shock, honestly, and if he hadn’t noticed that the numbers above his friend’s head had changed, if he hadn’t screamed at Frank, if Frank hadn’t slowed down, Frank would’ve been dead by now.

That last thought had given Patrick an unpleasant shudder down his spine.

When they got to the hospital (the police had given his friends a ride there while Patrick went with Frank in the ambulance), Frank’s parents had finally arrived. “Patrick saved him,” their friends told the older couple, and they all beamed at him proudly.

Mrs. Iero was teary-eyed as she glanced down at Patrick’s clothing, splattered with blood from Frank’s wounds earlier that day, before she wrapped her arms around the smaller Patrick, gratefully whispering again and again, “Thank you for saving my son” to his ear. Mr. Iero hugged Patrick as well, and when he had pulled away, he kept Patrick within an arm’s length and said, “You’re a real hero, young man.”

He was relieved that his friend was still alive albeit rather severely injured, but Patrick wasn’t sure if he could actually call himself that. He knew, deep within his heart, that he was no hero.

 

➽ **_Age 17._**

It had always been Patrick’s dream to be a part of a band.

Sure, his friends who were in bands would sometimes ask him to sub their drummers if they weren’t available during certain shows, but Patrick wanted to be _permanent_ in a band, not just a temporary member. The only real problem was that his mom wanted him to focus in school and nothing else, but Patrick knew better. He was sure that there was a deeper reason why his mom was doing so.

His family had noticed that Patrick was some kind of musical genius at such a young age after quickly learning how to play the drums, piano and guitar. But, when Patrick was eight years old, his parents told him and his siblings that they were divorcing due to “irreconcilable differences”.

After the divorce of his parents had been finalized (and probably it was too painful for his mom to fully grasp the fact that his dad—who, get this, was a _musician_ —had a new girlfriend already), his mom had gotten more strict than ever. Eventually, she decided to _forbid_ him in joining bands, which was why Patrick had to make up excuses in going home late for him to sub as a drummer for his friends’ bands sometimes. There were also times when he had snuck out late at night just to get to a show.

He figured it was for the best. At least, secretly, he was doing what he had always dreamt of doing, and he was earning some money from it.

At seventeen, Patrick had already known how difficult it was to join the bandwagon in the music industry. Yeah, it was fun performing with your friends for those people who could understand you through music, in a sense, and it was always fun being there onstage, with the music in the venue echoing all around you and letting you forget—even just for a moment—about what problems you were facing and what you were about to face, but even with all the good perks of being a band member, he knew that it was a brutal business.

Patrick had seen his friends struggle with the small amount of money they were paid with after their short set (and sometimes they never got paid at all; some bars would just allow them to eat and drink whatever they wanted instead), he had seen them fight during rehearsals and sound-checks, and he had seen the bands of some of his friends break up after doing a couple of shows, saying that they’d go nowhere anyway and that school was more important.

Patrick thought that their decision of breaking up was wrong. A huge mistake. He figured that maybe he was only thinking of that because he had _always_ wanted to be a permanent part of a band, which was something that he never had, and some of his friends were practically living his dream yet they only wasted it and allowed a huge opportunity of success to pass, but if he was on their shoes, Patrick would still continue with their band, struggling or not.

Then, he thought about his mom— _his mom who didn’t want him to do anything that is inclined to music_. But, come on, she couldn’t really blame him for wanting to play music for himself and for other people. It was basically sewn in his DNA, with his dad being a musician and all, plus his brother could play the violin really well. It only made sense, and it was what made him feel really contented with life.

But, in another part of his brain (most probably the _logical_ part, the part that was keeping him _sane_ ), Patrick knew that he should take heed of his mom’s advice. He was still keeping his secret from everybody, _that “gift” he possessed_ , since he was sure that it wasn’t normal for anybody to be able to see such things. He was pretty much used to seeing the electric blue numbers everywhere anyway, because you were bound to get used to it if you’ve seen those floating digits above people’s heads for _years_.

Patrick felt as he was living in some kind of fictional sci-fi movie or TV show, where the main character—probably him, he thought—was supposed to look for something… a purpose for his “gift”, perhaps. But, instead of watching the story progress onscreen, he was _literally living it_. Truth be told, it felt pretty weird being different from the others, possessing something that he knew other people had always dreamt of having.

The seventeen-year-old was very certain that, if only he had the chance to give his “gift” to a person who really wanted to have it in exchange of having the life of a band member and actually making their own music and wanting to tour around the world and perform for people and make them happy through their music for the rest of his life, he would seriously do that in a heartbeat, without any second thoughts.

Music was his passion, his first love, but fuck it, you couldn’t always get what you want.

So, instead of brooding on the fact that he probably would never be in a band permanently, Patrick did some research on his so-called “gift”. He started it when he had turned fifteen years old, because that was the time when he had begun wondering how and where the hell did he even pick up that kind of strange talent of some sort.

Patrick had already wasted _hours and hours_ of doing clinical reading that his back felt like breaking and his eyeballs felt like they were toasted from staring at the computer screen for so long when he had decided to finally stop, yet none of the things he had read could explain why he could _see_ the amount of time that people had left to live. Maybe his mom was abducted by aliens and they had experimented on her body when she was pregnant with him? Maybe his dad was a god or something and he was actually a demigod?

Whacking his head hard, Patrick knew that he shouldn’t really think of those things. They were all ridiculous hypotheses. It was pretty stupid of him to even consider those. He should really stop watching too many sci-fi and mythological movies and TV shows.

But, in a different part of his brain (most probably the irrational part this time, which probably would be the reason of his pending _insanity_ ), knew that he should’ve felt like… like a superhero, like those from the numerous comic books that his friend, Gerard Way, had let him borrow, because, _hello_ , he’s got some weird superpowers, but Patrick couldn’t help but feel like a freak.

 

➽ **_Age 18._**

When Patrick was eighteen, he had a girlfriend named Anna. She had short hair with the same color as mahogany that fell just above her shoulders, had a slim body, alabaster skin with tiny freckles here and there, rather small yet perky breasts that fit perfectly in Patrick’s hands, and had almost the same height as Patrick, maybe half an inch taller than him.

Anna and Patrick met in one of the shows that Patrick was invited in by Frank, who had become the guitarist of a band called My Chemical Romance. Their vocalist was one of Patrick’s friends as well, that comic book-enthusiast named Gerard.  He quickly became friends with the rest of the band—with Gerard’s brother and the bassist of the band, Mikey Way; the other guitarist, Ray Toro; and the drummer that he would sometimes sub in for, Bob Bryar. Patrick was actually really happy for Frank since, just like him, Frank had always wanted to be a permanent part of a band. He told Patrick that he would never give up the band over anything, which was something that Patrick would’ve done _if only_ he had a band.

The sad part was that he didn’t, and that he was still subbing as a drummer for different bands.

Anyway, looking on the bright side of his life, Patrick was still happy that he had Anna with him—sweet and pretty Anna who he had fallen in love with the first time she had smiled at him over the brim of the glass filled with vodka and cranberry juice that he had bought for her during the My Chemical Romance show in a small club.

He would never forget that day, March 22, because, come on, nobody would ever forget the day that you have met that soul mate you’ve been waiting for, no matter how cheesy and ridiculous it might sound to other people. Patrick knew that, after meeting Anna, she would be _the_ _one_.

Sure, Patrick knew that their relationship—or _any_ relationship, for that matter—was not perfect, but for him, it was the perfect blend of everything. _Bittersweet._ Yes, they had fights and misunderstandings in the past, the kind that would make you feel that everything would just end there, which was completely and understandably normal, and they also had those unforgettable moments that could make you suddenly smile at nothing in particular if it had crossed your mind.

What Patrick liked about Anna was the fact that she really understood what it was like being a band member. It was alright for her when Patrick would cancel their dates all of a sudden and change their plans on the last minute if he had a show to go to as a substitute drummer. She would reassure him that it just okay and she would be there in the gigs that he would be a part of, encouraging him to reach for his dreams.

Plus, the sex was fucking fantastic (which was a huge bonus on Patrick’s part—boys would _always_ be boys). She was never afraid of admitting to him what she wanted, and she would also give him whatever he wanted.

For Patrick, she was _the best girlfriend ever_. He couldn’t ask for more.

He had even considered telling Anna the truth, about the “gift” he had. Patrick was thinking that it might just freak her out, or that she would only laugh about it and think that he was just kidding, or that she would think that she was dating a lunatic—which he _wasn’t_ , just saying. But, if Anna really loved her, she would believe him, she wouldn’t tell a soul about it, and she would never book a room in a mental asylum for him, right?

To be honest, Patrick was so scared. Okay, that was an understatement— _he was terrified as hell_. He wasn’t really sure of what to do. He could only imagine what her reaction would be, and there were a lot of scenarios going through his head, both good and bad.

But, one day, Patrick had decided to finally man up and tell her about it. He was so ready to spill the secret that he had been keeping from everyone for years, but that was until his best friend, Joe Trohman, had told him that he heard from a friend that Anna was sleeping with some college guy from the University of Chicago the whole time that they were together.

Of course, Patrick didn’t believe him. He was _this_ close to punching Joe in the face and breaking his nose, but he had held himself back and decided to laugh it off. “That’s crazy, man,” Patrick told Joe with a snigger. “My girlfriend would never do that, trust me. I know her.”

Patrick would never forget the sad frown on his best friend’s face, the way his forehead had wrinkled in anxiety. He knew that his friend actually meant well. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dude,” he remembered Joe telling him. “I don’t know if what my friend said was true or not, but I hope Anna isn’t really cheating on you.”

He was thinking that Joe was just saying that because he didn’t really like Patrick’s girlfriend. He said that Anna didn’t just seem right for Patrick—“I’m saying this as your best friend,” Joe told him before—and he just didn’t feel like hanging out with her, which was really weird since Joe was the type of person who would hang out with literally _anybody_.

After graduating from high school, Patrick and Anna went to Columbia University since it was what they had planned on doing before college; that and sharing an apartment in New York together, just a few blocks away from the university. Patrick was majoring in music while Anna took dentistry. Joe went to Los Angeles to play as a guitarist in a metal band called The Damned Things after deciding on just ditching college. Joe said that his parents didn’t really mind much.

“I want to ditch college too, you know,” Patrick admitted to his friend while he sat on the edge of Joe’s bed, watching him pack his things up. Classes had already started in Columbia, but it was a Sunday anyway and he didn’t have any classes on the day Joe would be moving out from his parents’ house in Illinois. Patrick promised Joe that he’d give him a ride to the airport since it would probably be the last time that they’d see each other for a while, even if it meant driving for hours just to go back to New York.

“Then ditch college, man. It’s not rocket science,” Joe teased him as he zipped his suitcase close before turning his head towards Patrick, grinning at him. “Didn’t you tell me before that you wanna go to L.A. as well?”

Oh, yes, Patrick could still vividly remember that moment all too well. To be entirely honest with himself, Patrick did really want to go to L.A. since he knew that it was sort of the heart of the music industry in the country and his chances in becoming a successful musician could be higher if he’d stay in there, but with his mom wanting him to stay near Glenview—well, not _that_ near, but NYC was nearer to his hometown compared to California—and with his relationship with Anna still going stronger than ever, Patrick decided that it was best for him to stay there.

So, Patrick replied with a small smile as he stared at his shoes, “Nah, I changed my mind, Joe. I think I’m staying here for good.”

He could feel Joe’s eyes rolling away from him, sighing softly in exhaustion. It was an old conversation that they had in the past, and Patrick had already made up his mind in staying in New York with his girlfriend and graduating from college together.

“Fine, whatever you say, Patrick,” he said before making his way towards his study table. With a raised eyebrow, Patrick watched Joe write something on a piece of paper that he had torn off from the back of his old notebook, before handing it to Patrick. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

The address of Joe’s apartment in L.A. was written on the paper that Joe handed him. Patrick read it twice before lifting his head up to look at Joe, who was smiling at him. “It’s just a backup plan, you know what I’m saying?” Joe told him as he sat on the spot next to him. “Just in case things will happen, whatever they are.”

“Thanks, man,” Patrick said sincerely, and he really meant it.

 

➽ **_Age 21._**

Patrick was actually having the time of his life as a college student. At twenty-one, he made a lot of friends, his grades weren’t so bad, his professors were all impressed by his music skills, and Anna still stuck with him all throughout the years.

He was also glad that his friends were all starting to get quite known in the music industry. Patrick heard from Frank that My Chemical Romance’s fan base was getting bigger than what they had expected, and that they were going to release their second album soon. “I’ll send you a copy a day before the release,” Frank had promised him.

Frank said that he and his band mates were going to headline in the Vans Warped Tour on the summer of 2005, which was a tour that every rock band had ever dreamed of headlining for. He even promised Patrick that he’d be sending a couple of tickets to him so Patrick could bring his girlfriend and some friends on the show, which was something that Patrick was grateful of.

With all the good things happening to him and his friends, Patrick couldn’t really find an excuse to complain about his life—maybe except for the fact that his mom had a new boyfriend that he wasn’t really fond of having around their old house whenever he’d come by and visit—since everything seemed to be falling into place perfectly, _until one day_.

Patrick was driving himself and Anna from their shared apartment to the university when suddenly, Anna told Patrick, “You don’t have to pick me up tonight.”

He looked at her questioningly through the rear view mirror, but her eyes were fixated on the screen of her mobile, typing away on the keys while sucking on a lollipop. She was sitting on the shotgun seat, her feet propped up on the dashboard with one leg over the other. Patrick raised a curious eyebrow as he focused his eyes back on the road. “You’ve got classes after six now?” he asked her, trying not to sound suspicious, since it might offend her or something.

“Just for extra credit,” Anna replied with a shrug, her eyes still on her phone.

She didn’t say anything else after that. Feeling quite uncomfortable with the deafening silence in the car, Patrick had turned the volume of the radio way up to drown the quiet. He didn’t want to think anything bad about Anna. He didn’t like to think that his girlfriend was cheating on him… except for the fact that he actually was thinking of the worst-case scenarios at that very moment.

Patrick was aware that trust was the most important factor in any relationship, so he tried not to fret too much about it. If his girlfriend said that she would be doing extracurricular work for extra credit or whatever, then he should believe her.

He just couldn’t help but think about the words Joe had told him years ago. The warning. The advice. _“Just in case,”_ Joe had told him, and those words were running through his head over and over again. Patrick thought about the piece of paper where Joe had written his L.A. apartment address, tucked in between his driver’s license and credit cards in his wallet, and hoped that he would never have to use it.

But Patrick had a weird feeling that he would have to use it really soon.

And, to his horror, it turned out that his instincts were actually true.

It wasn’t like Patrick chose to stop by the same Chinese restaurant with the one where he had seen his girlfriend with a bunch of other guys he didn’t even know. It wasn’t like he wanted to see his girlfriend of four years, her shoulders being wrapped with an arm of another guy—older than him, Patrick guessed, based on the other man’s physical appearance, and the other guy was way taller than him, that was for sure—with their lips pressed against each other’s.

No, he didn’t march to their table and demand to get his girlfriend back. He didn’t have a fit and started a commotion in the restaurant. He didn’t even call her up, pretend that he was home already and ask her where she was, and then observe her actions and wait for her to respond, waiting for whether or not she would be lying to him. Patrick wasn’t that type of guy.

In fact, Patrick didn’t do anything all. Instead, after paying for the Chinese food that he had ordered—supposedly for him and his girlfriend, but that didn’t matter anymore—Patrick had quietly left the establishment wordlessly, his eyes still fixated on Anna as he walked past the glass windows of the restaurant.

And, for a minute, their eyes met. Hers filled with surprise and regret, his blank and emotionless. He saw Anna rise from her seat and the guy next to her seemed alarmed by her sudden actions, but Patrick didn’t wait for her anymore and went on walking back to his car, his feet dragging him to the parking lot briskly. He had already seen enough. More than enough, actually.

Only then did reality hit him hard when he had arrived in their apartment. After unlocking the door and closing it shut behind him, Patrick dumped the Chinese food that he was bringing on the coffee table, put his fist through the wall, and slumped down the floor.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t want to cry at all. He didn’t even mind that his knuckles were bleeding and that his right hand felt numb. Patrick just reminisced about what he and Anna had supposedly planned out in the past for the future of their relationship—that they’d graduate together, that they’d get decent jobs, that they’d get married and buy a house together, that they’d have two kids and probably two adopted dogs, and that they’d grow old together.

Patrick was _so_ sure that Anna would be the girl he’d marry the first time he laid eyes on her. For four years, he had believed that she was already _the one_ , his _soul mate_ , the person he’d spend the remaining days of his life with, but the events of that night had shattered everything.

Joe was right all along. Patrick was certain that he should’ve believed him, and he was just too stupid not to even question why his girlfriend had started coming home late.

Which was why, two weeks later, Patrick had shown up in the front door of Joe’s L.A. apartment with a bandage wrapped around his right hand, clutching a duffel bag with his left hand, a messenger bag around his torso, and a huge suitcase on his right. He had already talked to his mom about planning to quit college, moving out from his and Anna’s shared apartment, and flying out to Los Angeles in hopes of finding a music career.

Patrick hoped that this was the right choice.


	2. Chicago-ward.

“Dude, are you sure that you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?” Joe asked Patrick for probably the twenty-ninth time that morning as he watched the shorter man fuss around his bedroom in their shared apartment, checking and double-checking and even triple-checking if he had packed everything that he had to bring home with him.

Patrick let out a laugh as he nodded in response, turning his head to look at Joe for a second to shoot him a smile before crouching to check the bottom of his bed, just to make sure that he didn’t leave anything necessary behind. His mom had called him up a few weeks ago and asked him to come home for the holiday season.

“Just for two weeks, Rick. I haven’t seen you in forever,” his mom had begged him over the phone, and Patrick could only sigh and give in to the pleas of his mother. Patrick knew that his mom didn’t actually mean that she’d want him to stay in Illinois for two weeks—she actually meant _two months_. That was exactly what happened on the Christmas during the previous year, and the year before that, and also the year before that.

So, basically, _every year_ that he was away from home.

Patrick actually felt quite bad for Joe since he would be spending Christmas alone in the apartment, but then again, the man was Jewish, so he didn’t really celebrate the occasion. Plus, Patrick’s absence meant that Joe could spend more time alone with his girlfriend (which also meant that they were free to create a lot of noise during sex), so Joe didn’t really mind much.

_The asshole._

He had stayed with Joe and shared his apartment with him since he was twenty-one. Now, at twenty-four, Patrick didn’t really change that much, apart from the fact that he dyed his hair into a peroxide blond color and he also lost a lot of weight since he and Anna broke up—he had stressed himself with work after that unfortunate day—but he was still the same man with only one ex-girlfriend to his name. What also changed was that he would be seen performing around Los Angeles as a street musician now.

Patrick didn’t really earn much and he wasn’t a recording artist yet unlike what he had always dreamt of being, but the money he was making was quite bigger than what he had initially expected, just enough to pay the bills and his share of the rent in the apartment and a little more for his daily needs. He was also glad when some people started talking about him to the owners of a few clubs and bars, and they had eventually invited him over to their establishments to play some songs to the customers on some nights.

“Come on, man,” Joe insisted, snapping Patrick from his reverie. “Hey, it’s like a payback, alright? You drove me to the airport when we were in Chicago, and now, let me drive you to LAX. We’re both even after that.”

“I already called up a cab to get me here, and I bet the driver’s already waiting for me outside,” Patrick answered, zipping up his bag close. It felt quite weird, knowing that Joe was watching him pack up, when he had been doing the watching instead of the arranging of stuff years ago. Their roles had been reversed after four years, and it was kind of funny to him.

“Dude, you’re wasting money. If it was me who would be driving you, it’d be free of charge!”

“Yeah, but it’d be an ego boost for you to drive around L.A. with your new car.”

Joe was smiling at Patrick smugly. “You’re just jealous that I’ve got Courtney.”

Patrick faced him, blinking repeatedly in confusion. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, finally managing to spat out, “Wait a minute, you named your car _‘Courtney’_?”

His best friend shrugged nonchalantly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and Patrick had no idea that it actually was. Okay, well, _maybe_ , because Patrick had somehow believed that he seemed to be utterly clueless the dos and don’ts in some aspects of life, as if he was still stuck in the cavemen period or something.

“That’s what guys usually do when they’ve got a car,” Joe replied, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe as he tucked one hand inside one pocket of his jeans.

“That’s just stupid,” Patrick mumbled, but it was just loud enough for Joe to hear.

Instead of a snigger that Patrick was expecting to come out from Joe, it was an incredulous, “Wait, don’t tell me you didn’t name your car anything?” Patrick’s cheeks heated up right away and didn’t say anything in return—because, actually, Patrick didn’t name his car that was left back home in Chicago with anything at all. Sure, he knew that some guys named their cars with girls’ names, but he didn’t really think that it was much of an issue.

Patrick could the tips of his ears turning pink as well due to embarrassment.

“Dude! You should totally name your car something!” Joe suggested in a loud voice as Patrick pulled the handle of his suitcase and grabbed his duffel bag with his free hand.

It startled Patrick when he heard a snort escape from his own lips. “Joe, I don’t think that’s—”

Joe was making a lot of hand gestures, as if he was really upset that Patrick hadn’t named his car with anything, as if Patrick had committed a sin or something. His face was scrunched up a little as he tried to explain the importance of car-naming. “It’s, like, a necessity! Like, naming your child—if you’re gonna have one, or naming your pets with something, because you just can’t call your dog _‘dog’_ or your cat _‘cat’_ for the rest of its life, right? Now _that’s_ just stupid.”

Patrick’s eyebrows were knitted together as he shook his head at Joe, looking sideways in mild annoyance at his friend as walked past him on his way out of the bedroom, silently glad that Joe had given him some space to pass through the doorway. Joe had closed the door for him after they had both stepped out from his room as he zipped up the jacket that he was wearing, because, _right_ , they were going out of the apartment in _December_.

Patrick knew that he would certainly miss the warmth of the apartment. He’d be exposed to the cold for _hours_ until he’d get back home. Sure, there were heaters in the airport, but still.

He was about to thank Joe for closing his door for him as he adjusted the gray scarf that he was wearing around his neck with a free hand, but he had bitten his tongue to stop himself from saying anything when the Jewish man still couldn’t shut his trap about the car-naming.

 _Oh my god, Joe, just shut the fuck up already,_ Patrick wanted to tell him, but he knew that Joe was just teasing him. But, seriously, he was starting to get really irritated.

“Hmm… Let’s see, oh! What about _‘Alessandra’_? Don’t you like that name? It’s a sexy girl’s name,” Joe recommended, grinning at Patrick as they made their way to the elevator of their apartment. Patrick furrowed his eyebrows together and shook his head again, biting his lower lip.

Joe was humming to himself, rubbing the winter stubble on his chin as he thought of more names for Patrick’s car—not that Patrick actually _cared_. “Maybe _‘Roxanne’_? Or _‘Francine’_ , I guess? Those names sound quite sexy, right? Or maybe—”

“I’m not naming my car with anything, Joe!” Patrick scowled at him as he pressed the down button of the elevator. “It’s just ridiculous naming a car, alright? Especially when the name you gave it is _‘Catherine’_ or whatever.”

“Nice try, man, but my car’s name is _‘Courtney’_ ,” Joe explained, tilting his head a little to the side as he smiled down at his friend. Patrick’s cheeks grew hot again, silently cursing himself for his mistake, but he had tried to cover it with a roll of his eyeballs.

Joe was playing with his car key—Patrick had no idea why Joe was even bringing it around with him; it’s not like they were gonna use it or anything—as they waited for the elevator to arrive on their floor, tossing it in the air before catching it with one hand. Patrick was so tempted to snatch it away from him and throw it out of the window for good measure.

But, as the kind of man that was raised and groomed well by his parents, he didn’t do what the irrational part of his brain was ordering him to do, no matter how inviting it was, given the conversation that they just had.

They rode the elevator in silence, with the occasional clinking of Joe’s car key against the ring on his finger echoing in the small space. The ring was given by Joe’s girlfriend, Marie, who Patrick grew quite fond of, as a gift for his birthday last year. His closest friends knew that Patrick had gotten quite uncomfortable around girls after the whole Anna incident, but with Marie, it was fine for him. He didn’t mind her presence in the apartment that much, nor was he bothered about the numbers hovering hers and Joe’s heads.

After more than two decades of seeing those electric blue numbers everywhere, Patrick had already adapted to his weird life already, but that didn’t change the fact that he would still get scared every time he would notice a sudden change in anybody’s numbers. Sometimes, nothing would happen, but there were times when things had gotten out of hand.

Patrick would have to use both of his hands and feet just to count the number of accidents that he had witnessed in his entire life. Probably even more. It wasn’t like he was tallying them down or anything, but Patrick had found himself collecting the newspaper articles and printing out some screenshots from the countless videos regarding the different accidents that he had seen, all filed in a clear book that he had placed in his drawer.

So, yeah, it still was like tallying them down.

No, but seriously.

Okay. To be honest, Patrick wasn’t even sure why he had collected them all. He wasn’t like a sadist or anything like that, but he just felt the need to preserve the memories that had been haunting him in his sleep. Like, a sick way of reminding himself that he wasn’t normal at all. Sure, the digital numbers were always there above people’s heads, sort of mocking him as the only person in the world who knew that they existed.

When the elevator had dinged, announcing their arrival on the ground floor of their apartment building, Patrick had wondered if this “ability” or “gift” he had would someday go away. He wasn’t really sure if he’d want that to happen or not though. A part of him he wanted to be unique due to some kind of superpower that he possessed, but at the same time, another part of Patrick knew that people would surely call him a “freak” if ever they would find out about the truth, probably even kill him since he was different from the rest.

As Joe kept on talking about his new car, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Patrick wasn’t listening to him at all. In fact, he was lost in his own thoughts. He shivered internally when he remembered those movies that he had seen before, about people who were staked and burned alive because the townspeople thought that they were witches and could harm everyone. Patrick really hoped, with his fingers crossed, that no such thing would happen to him in the near future.

The blast of wind when they had stepped out into the cold, December air had brought him back to the present. Joe was asking him something, which Patrick didn’t really understand at first since his ears felt as if someone had plugged them with noise-cancelling earphones or something, so he had to ask him, “ _What?_ ”

The rest of his senses, especially all the noise coming from the cars on the street and Joe’s whiny voice had then come back to Patrick like a punch within seconds, which kind of surprised him. Joe had rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically before repeating his question to Patrick, slowing it down and raising his voice a little, acting as if he was talking to a little child. “I asked you earlier if that is the cab you’ve called?”

Patrick followed the direction Joe was pointing at, belatedly realizing that the cab driver was already waiting for him, not looking happy to be sitting and doing nothing for too long. He willed his brain to cooperate with him and function properly, but it seemed to be pointedly ignoring him. Thankfully, Patrick had managed to somehow let a part of his brain to keep on working and nodded his head as an answer, letting Joe carry his stuff to the cab.

Opening the doors on the backseat and quickly climbing in the cab as Joe placed his suitcase inside the trunk, Patrick had given the cab driver a nervous smile and apologized. “I’m really sorry if it took quite a while,” he told the driver, looking at him through the rear view mirror, but the older man had only grumbled which sounded like “S’alright” and said nothing else.

As he placed his duffel bag on the empty space beside him, Patrick heard a rather loud click at the back of the cab, and was about to turn his head and check on what Joe was doing when a knock on the car window had startled him.

It was Joe— _of course_ , who else would it be?—who was grinning widely at him and waving goodbye at him for one last time as the cab driver started the engine. Patrick grinned and waved back, and it wasn’t long until he was watching his friend grow smaller and smaller through the side mirror of the cab.

Sighing softly to himself, Patrick had pulled out his iPod from the pocket of his coat, plugged his earphones in his ears, chose the playlist he made which was intended to relax his nerves, and then settled himself comfortably on the backseat with another sigh—in contentment this time—briefly closing his eyes as he hummed along the voice of David Bowie.


	3. Thirty-three Minutes.

It began raining on his way to the airport.

As the cab that he was riding on passed by some people who seemed to be rejoicing under the rain—since it hadn’t rained at all for a whole week in California—and who looked as if they didn’t really mind the chilly December air, getting their clothes soaked and catching a cold, Patrick let out a deep breath and leaned his head against the car window.

Patrick was thinking about his home, Chicago, and the people that he had been looking forward to see again after a couple of months of being apart. He thought about his mom, his brother and his sister, his dad and his new wife, his friends, his dogs, his old bedroom—heck, he couldn’t even deny the fact that he missed his mom’s pancakes topped with butter and lots of maple syrup that she used to prepare for him for breakfast every morning when he was a kid… He just really missed everyone and everything back home.

He wasn’t sure why he felt quite homesick all of a sudden, and to think that he was on his way back home already. Patrick knew that he should’ve been excited, in fact, since he would be seeing his family again, but he was feeling quite nervous instead.

There was this sinking and weird feeling in the pit of his stomach… He knew this body reaction of his, and Patrick really hoped that nothing bad was going to happen this time. He felt scared, because every time that he would feel uneasy—somewhat the same way as what he was feeling on that very moment—a sudden accident would happen, and he didn’t like that.

Breathing in deeply once more, Patrick turned the volume of the music on his iPod way up to drown his anxiety and tried to distract himself by picking the dirt from the tips of his fingernails. It then took quite a while for Patrick to notice that they were near LAX already.

When the cab driver had pulled over, Patrick had quickly paid him and even added a fifty-bill tip before clambering out of the cab, clutching his duffel bag on one hand and then pulling out his suitcase from the trunk of the cab. He then wheeled his suitcase with him, walking briskly towards the front doors of the airport without looking back at the cab.

The events in the airport were all a blur to him. Honestly, Patrick couldn’t even remember much of the things that had happened in there and what he did in there since he was too busy calming himself down, silently wishing that the nervousness he was feeling would eventually leave him alone at some point.

Patrick really _did_ try to stop his hands from shaking and from fumbling with everything he was touching and holding—he actually earned a lot of concerned looks from the airport staff that he had interacted with—but there was just something that had been bothering him all morning the moment he had stepped inside the cab.

And the problem? Patrick wasn’t sure what caused it.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

The voice from the female barista had snapped Patrick out of his own thoughts, making him stare stupidly at the girl with a mixture of shock and confusion in his eyes. The girl— _‘Wendy’_ , Patrick figured that it was her name after reading what was written on her name tag, _obviously_ —was looking at Patrick with her eyebrows furrowed together, probably wondering what the heck was happening to him, but there was a huge smile plastered on her face.

Patrick blinked, finally managing to gather his scattered thoughts together, and nodded his head as a response. “I-I’m fine,” he stuttered out, trying to ignore the fact that he had almost forgotten that he was standing in front of the counter of Starbucks inside the airport. Patrick shot her a small smile as he muttered, “I’m sorry, I just… zoned out for a while, but thank you.”

Wendy smiled at him, saying, “No problem, sir” as she stretched her arm out towards him to hand him the coffee he ordered. Patrick fumbled slightly with his wallet as he took out a couple of bills to pay for the coffee plus for the lady barista’s tip before quickly exiting and making his way back towards the waiting area.

As he waited for his flight, Patrick was listening to a different playlist on his iPod—the one that he had intended for those “down in the dumps” days as an attempt to cheer him up somehow—when his phone started ringing. He took his earphones out from his ears and swiftly fished for his phone that was simultaneously ringing and vibrating inside the pocket of his coat, and smiled a little to himself when _‘Joe Trohman calling’_ had showed up on the screen.

Without any second thoughts, Patrick pressed the _‘answer’_ button, held the phone closer to his ear, and jokingly greeted the man on the other line with a smug, “Missed me already? We haven’t been apart for more than three hours yet. Couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you?”

“Fuck you very much,” Joe replied dryly, making Patrick laugh heartily. At least Joe was there to lighten up his mood, in a way. That man’s presence had always entertained him. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting that you’d still answer my call since I was thinking that you’ve boarded on the plane already by now.”

“My flight was delayed for an hour,” Patrick told him. “Why did you call, anyway?”

“No reason,” Joe said in a casual tone, and Patrick could almost _hear_ him grinning widely on the other line, which made him roll his eyes. Typical Joe; that man _never_ changed at all. “I just wanna give you a head’s up in case you’d notice that Marie and I changed the sheets on your bed when you get home.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be the _first_ time, would it?” Patrick inquired in a bored voice, his eyebrow raising slightly. It wasn’t the first time Joe and Marie had gotten “lost”— _their_ words, not his—in the middle of their heated make-out sessions and they had somehow winded up on Patrick’s bed, of all places in the apartment.

Sure, Patrick had flipped out when it had happened for the first time when he had to go back home in Chicago and then the second time when he had attended a My Chemical Romance show in Phoenix—Frank had sent him another ticket and asked him to go since they haven’t hung out for such a long time since their band’s tour started—and on the third time when Patrick had gone home for a summer vacation, but after all those, he pretty much got used to going back to their apartment and noticing that his sheets had been changed _without his knowledge_.

Honestly, Patrick had considered just buying a new mattress since he felt dirty sleeping on the same bed his best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend had sex on. But then again, Patrick knew that they would still continue in dirtying up his mattress, new or not.

He even wondered how the hell the couple had gotten inside his bedroom without any keys because he purposely didn’t leave them a spare since the whole idea of it was _disturbing_ , but he also didn’t like to think about how much time Joe and Marie must’ve spent in using a hairpin or anything sharp just to pick on the lock of his door.

For some reason, Patrick never considered just looking for another roommate who would be way better than Joe, or going to another apartment to just live alone in peace.

Sure, it might have crossed his mind twice or thrice (sometimes _more_ , actually, especially on those nights when Patrick would hear Joe and Marie having pretty vulgar sex in the bedroom just right across his; he would even blast loud music through his speakers just to drown their noises out), but Patrick knew that it wouldn’t be the same without Joe—and by extension, Marie as well. Those two had been with him through thick and thin.

Joe snickered. “I told you, I’m just giving you a head’s up because, you know, you might wonder all of sudden when you get back,” he explained.

“To be honest, I’ve actually been wondering for four years why I’ve decided to live in the same apartment as this man named Joe Trohman and how I’ve miraculously managed to put up with him every single day,” Patrick teased good-naturedly, grinning to himself. “It’s like I’ve made a pact with the devil or something.”

“That hurts, man!” Joe feigned a loud wail, which made Patrick snort loudly and shake his head in amusement. “Come on, man. At some point, you gotta admit to yourself—and to _me_ , and to _everyone_ —that you love me. Say it, Patrick. Say that you _love_ me.”

“No, Joe. I’m not going to lie to myself just to make you happy.”

“You love me so much and you know it,” Joe insisted, and Patrick let out an exhausted sigh as he rolled his eyes, but there was still a smile playing on his lips. “Dude, you got to confess your undying love for me at least _once_ in your life—”

“Not in this lifetime, you douche.”

“—or you’ll regret it,” Joe said, as if he didn’t even hear what Patrick told him.

Patrick knew that Joe just _loved_ getting him all riled up—and he kind of got used to his roommate’s teases already, after years and years of knowing (and living with) Joseph Mark Trohman—and he was so sure that Joe was smirking triumphantly on the other end of the line at that very moment, probably even throwing his fists up in the air.

Patrick was pretty convinced that his best friend’s daily goal was to _‘Get on Patrick Stump’s last nerves and make him want to hit you hard in the face’_ , but he was still quite surprised that it never came to that. Well, _yet_ , so it might happen any time soon.

He even figured that maybe Joe had already prepared a checklist of things to tease him about, written in a notepad or whatever that might be hidden somewhere underneath the pile of dirty clothes and comic books. Patrick was thinking that perhaps he could look for it when he’d come back from Chicago.

“I’m _seriously_ gonna tell Marie that you’ve been flirting with me and you’re cheating on her,” Patrick threatened him jokingly as he shoved his earphones inside his pocket, grinning a little as he went on planning for _‘Operation: Search for Joe Trohman’s Checklist’_ in his head.

A snicker escaped from Joe. “Let’s see who she’s gonna believe, then.”

Patrick was about to make a witty response when he realized that the other people who were waiting with him—and were most likely passengers of the same plane that he would be boarding—had started grabbing their belongings and were on their way towards the boarding bay already. Apparently, he was too busy talking to Joe that he had missed the announcement that they were supposed to get going.

“Man, I have to go,” Patrick told Joe, rising from his seat. With a quick glance around, he checked whether he had left anything or not before briskly walking towards the boarding bay, following the crowd of passengers. “I’ll call you right away when I arrive in Chicago, alright?”

“Okay. Have a safe flight home, Patrick. Oh, and say hi to your mom for me.”

“Will do. Thanks, Joe,” Patrick said before he pressed the _‘end’_ button, turned on the flight mode of his phone and then tucked it back inside his coat pocket.

The queue of passengers was rather long, and Patrick couldn’t help but feel a little bored of waiting. He allowed his eyes to wander around in the meantime—he stared down at the leather boots that he was wearing, he scrutinized the clothes that people were wearing and wondered if the sleeveless shirt that one girl was wearing could provide her enough heat, he studied the tiles on the floor… and then his eyes went up to the head of the little girl in a pink lace dress who was clutching her mother’s hand, standing just before him.

And, right there, above her chocolate brown curls, were a series of electric blue numbers. Patrick wasn’t very sure if he was reading it correctly, but when he had first read it, all the blood had been drained from his face instantaneously. Patrick was hoping that he had only missed something, so he had to read it twice, thrice, but he found out that his first reading was right after all— _thirty-three minutes and nineteen seconds._

Rather desperately, Patrick shifted his eyes to child’s mother and read her own series of numbers above her head— _thirty-three minutes and seventeen seconds_. His breathing had quickened and his pulse was ringing in his ears as he checked the numbers above other people’s heads, those people ahead of him and even those people who were standing behind him, and his readings were all pretty much the same.

Each one of the passengers of the plane only had thirty-three minutes left.


	4. Living With Guilt.

Patrick wasn’t really sure of what was happening—or what was bound to happen, but he already had an idea that things wouldn’t turn out really well for everyone in the next thirty-three minutes if he wouldn’t be doing anything to stop the people from getting in the plane.

His mind was spinning, and before he even knew it, Patrick was standing face-to-face to one of the airport personnel, who was looking at him with sincere concern. Apparently, Patrick had belatedly realized that he had managed to squeeze out from the queue of people in the middle of his internal battle and had somehow made his way to one of the female airport personnel.

“Sir, are you alright?” she had asked him kindly, her eyebrows knitted together slightly. Patrick could only imagine how pale—or _paler_ , actually, since his skin had always been alabaster white ever since—he was at that very moment. He probably looked as if he had seen a ghost or something, he thought inwardly.

No words escaped his mouth when he had tried to speak, so Patrick had settled with a shake of his head. He was biting his lower lip harshly, hard enough to draw blood.

A hint of copper had flooded his mouth.

“What can I help you with, sir?” she inquired, but Patrick didn’t say anything in response. Patrick was staring at the metal name tag pinned on her left chest—the words _‘Cassadee Pope’_ were intricately engraved in it—instead of looking straight at her eyes. “Do you want me to get you some water?” Cassadee offered politely, still smiling at him.“Is that what you need? Because, um, you look dehydrated.”

If it was just a normal day, Patrick would surely thank the kind lady personnel for the offer, but since he was too busy trying to stop himself from begging for help and make a ridiculous scene in front of a lot of people in the airport, he didn’t give her an answer and didn’t even look at her in the eye. But, when he heard her sigh and made a move to leave to get water for him, Patrick had burst and finally looked straight at her eyes.

“Those people are gonna die,” Patrick whispered desperately to her as he pointed at the queue of airplane passengers, his eyes silently pleading her to believe him before quickly scanning the surroundings. Some of the passengers started looking over at them in curiosity, their eyebrows knitted together as they talked to each other in hushed tones.

“Sir,” the airport personnel began, which made Patrick fixate his attention back to her. Cassadee was smiling at him as she placed an assuring hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I think you should fall in line now. A rest might help when you get on board. I’ll ask some staff to give you food and water in the plane, and maybe they’ll—”

“No, you _don’t_ understand,” Patrick retorted, clicking his tongue loudly as he ran a trembling hand over his bleach blond hair. He licked his chapped lips, trying to find the right words to tell her and trying not to freak out at the same time. And honestly, his knees started shaking a little in fear. “If they get on the plane, they’re gonna die.”

The smile on Cassadee’s face was gone within seconds. Her lips thinned as she looked at him with an eyebrow raised, withdrawing her hand from Patrick’s shoulder right away. “Well, sir, you’re not supposed to joke about that kind of thing inside an airport—”

Patrick was so frustrated now. All he wanted was to scream and pull his hair out of his scalp already, but he knew that he couldn’t. This is exactly why he had never told anybody that he could tell that an accident would be happening—they would _never_ take him seriously.

People would all think that he was insane or was only joking to get some unwanted attention… but then, what happened to those people that he had warned before? _They all died._

In some sick part of Patrick’s brain, the words _“Served them right”_ kept on running and running, but he knew that he couldn’t really blame people for not believing him at all, because, if some random person that he never met before would approach him and claim that he knew when he’d die, Patrick wouldn’t believe him either.

He didn’t want another accident to happen again—especially since there are way more people involved this time, but he didn’t want to make a scene in a public place either, which might get him to jail and to the local news, probably even make it to the cover page of newspapers with the headline _‘L.A. Street Musician Gone Mad’_ or something. His mom would have a raging fit, Patrick was certain of that, and his career (sort of) would be over in a heartbeat.

“I’m _not_ joking!” Patrick groaned in annoyance, scowling at her. He tried not to get mad— _really_ —but she was starting to get on his nerves. “You’ve got to believe me! I’m telling the truth; those people are going to die in half an hour, and we’re running out of time—”

“ _Sir_ ,” Cassadee said firmly, making Patrick stop mid-sentence as she fixed a cautious yet strict gaze on him. “If you don’t have plans to get on-board anymore, I think you have to leave now, perhaps call a friend or your girlfriend or someone to get you, or probably reschedule your flight to a different day, and I promise that I won’t call the security.”

“Come on, miss,” he insisted in a whisper and ignored the personnel’s sharp inhale and piercing glare on him. Patrick was really freaking out already, his voice catching on his throat a little and his hands starting to produce a lot of cold sweat.

“ _Please_ , please believe me,” Patrick said, unconsciously fumbling with the buttons of his coat. “I can’t really explain why I know that something bad is gonna happen. I just… I just _know_ , and I know that it sounds crazy, but you really have to do something to stop these people from getting on the plane or they’ll die—”

“I will seriously call airport security if you won’t stop talking,” Cassadee threatened, frowning at him. “Look, sir, I’m not sure if you’re just kidding around—”

“But I’m really _not_!”

She raised a hand quickly, motioning him to shut his mouth. Patrick did what he was told to do rather glumly, and tried to chew on his bottom lip again instead, still worried about the passengers. He couldn’t even glance at them anymore; he knew that they were all looking at him and Cassadee, wondering what the hell was happening to him, and he just couldn’t look at the digital numbers above their heads anymore. Patrick felt as if he was gonna be sick.

“You’re probably just getting a bit jittery, sir. Is this your first time to fly? Or do you have a fear of heights, perhaps?” she asked, and he was about to open his mouth and respond that, no,it wasn’t his first time to fly, and no, he didn’t have acrophobia, and no, he wasn’t getting jittery for the flight at all, but Cassadee had already talked over him and said, “If you want, I can make a call for you so that someone can fetch you right now. I think some rest is what you need, sir.”

 _‘You don’t understand what the fuck is actually happening… You don’t know how many people are gonna die just because you’re not helping me do something to warn them…’_ Patrick wanted to tell her that, but he decided to just bite his tongue hard, clench his jaw and then turnon his heel, walking away from her. There was no use in telling someone who wouldn’t even listen to him. There was no use to tell people who wouldn’t believe him.

Somehow, Patrick had managed to find his way to the nearest men’s restroom, completely empty except for him. He locked himself in one of the cubicles and sat on the closed lid of the toilet. Tears were dangerously about to fall from his eyes as he fished for his phone from his coat pocket, and then dialled Joe’s number with fumbling fingers.

Joe answered the call after three rings with a very surprised, “Patrick? Wait, you’re in Chicago already? Well, wow, that was quick.”

“N-No, I’m actually still in LAX,” Patrick replied, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his coat. He tried, he _really_ did try, not to stammer at all, but his hands were shaking like crazy and his lips were quivering—not from the cold but from the guilt that was getting into his system and bugging his peace of mind—and he, as always, was imagining the worst case scenarios that might possibly happen to the passengers in the plane.

“Why did you call? Did something happen?” Joe inquired curiously, and Patrick could hear the genuine concern on his voice. He was glad to have a friend like Joe, especially in times like this, even if Joe had always made Patrick want to strangle him in a daily basis.

“I just… C-Can you pick me up? Like, as soon as you can? I-I’ll explain everything when you get here,” Patrick said in a small voice, his voice breaking somewhere in the middle. He didn’t want Joe to know that he was crying over the phone, but he was, and Joe was going to get him anyway, so there was no use hiding it since his friend would still see him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll be there right away. Where exactly are you?”

“Men’s room.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Joe promised, and Patrick thanked him over and over again, trying to fight back his tears, but he couldn’t stop them from coming. They were flowing freely from his eyes. At least Joe didn’t tease him even if his friend could clearly hear him sobbing softly from his line.

“Don’t mention it, man,” Joe assured, softly shushing him. Judging from the tone of his voice, Joe was clearly worried of Patrick.“Just… Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Please. Just wait for me. I’ll go get you. And then we’ll talk.”

Patrick didn’t say anything and just clicked his phone shut, ending the call, before burying his face on his hands, stifling his sobs on his palms. He felt really bad that he couldn’t do anything to save anyone from that plane, that he couldn’t change their fate, that a lot of people were going to die. He wasn’t able to do anything to stop them from getting on the plane, even if he could’ve. Guilt was eating him up and his conscience was laughing at him mercilessly.

Another thing that he was kind of bothered by was that his belongings were most likely in the plane already, but fuck, that didn’t matter to him that much anymore.

He may not be the actual reason why they would be dead any minute now, but he was certain that this memory would forever be imprinted his brain, would never be forgotten. He was part of the blame, technically. Patrick felt like a _coward_ … a fucking _useless coward_.

That was how Joe found Patrick an hour later (Joe actually tried to look for Patrick as fast as he could, but goddammit, Patrick hadn’t specified which men’s room exactly he was, and LAX was _humongous_ as fuck)—still sitting on the closed lid of the toilet bowl inside the farthest cubicle from the door, his eyes and face blank, his coat strewn on the tiled floor by his feet, his back bent forwards a little as he rested one elbow on his thigh, one hand clutching his phone tightly while the other was gripping his hair painfully, his nose red and his cheeks flushed and tear-stained, and his button-up shirt almost see-through already since he was sweating a lot.

And when Patrick had slowly lifted his eyes to lock them with Joe’s, that was when something had suddenly snapped inside of Patrick and then he started sobbing again.

Joe had kneeled in front of him and then wrapped his arms around Patrick to give him a friendly hug, letting the blond man sob softly and mumble unintelligible words into his shoulder. Joe was definitely not going to complain that Patrick soaked his jacket with his tears, nor was he planning to stop hugging him so tightly that he was in the brink of asphyxiation. Joe might be an ass to Patrick, but he just wasn’t that kind of friend.

Patrick was really glad that Joe was there to hold him for a while, shushing him softly until he calmed down a little, plus Patrick was thankful that the men’s room was empty aside from them. He didn’t want other people—especially _grown men_ , very much like himself—to see that he was crying like baby on the shoulder of another dude inside a cubicle in a public men’s room.

He felt a little… _emasculated_. Just a little, he guessed. But, who had the spare time to think about what other people might think of his friendship with Joe if they had seen them there? _Not Patrick Stump._ He had other _bigger_ problems to think about—such as the plane that had surely taken off already and the gruesome fate of the passengers in it.

If only he had the chance to warn them, then things would’ve turned out differently.

“Come on, Patrick. Let’s go,” Joe urged him, which made Patrick blink back to the present. Patrick had slowly unwrapped his arms from Joe and just silently watched his friend pick up his coat from the floor before Joe had helped him get up and insisted Patrick to wear his coat again on their way out of the men’s room.

They walked out of the airport in silence, with Patrick’s head bowed down the whole time as he fumbled with the buttons of his coat and Joe’s concerned glances that Patrick could see from the corner of his eye. Patrick was relieved that Joe hadn’t asked him yet about what had happened and why he had suddenly changed his mind in flying back to Chicago on the last minute, since he wasn’t really sure if there would be any sound that would come out from his mouth.

And also, Patrick wasn’t sure how he could ever explain to his best friend that he knew that something bad was going to happen on the plane that he was supposed to board on. He was still in shock, and he didn’t know what excuse he could give to Joe. He never liked lying—he _hated_ the whole idea of lying to people—especially to those who matter to him the most.

To Patrick’s defense, hiding his “ability” to his family and friends wasn’t _exactly_ lying to any of them at all. For him, it was just simply an omission. He didn’t want those people who were close to him to get worried of his mental health, because, for sure, that would be their initial reaction—or _anyone_ ’s initial reaction, for that matter—and also because he didn’t want them to get involved with the drama and trauma that had been dreading him for years.

Even the car ride back to their shared apartment was quiet for once, with only the voice of Billie Joe Armstrong from the radio filling the awkward silence in the car. Patrick was glad that Joe was respecting his privacy, and was just clearly waiting for him to be the one who would eventually volunteer on saying something first.

When they got back, Patrick was still silent as Joe unlocked the apartment door for them. He quickly made a beeline for his bedroom as soon as the door was opened, tried to ignore Joe’s concerned gaze on his back, sighed loudly when his back had hit the mattress of his bed, and then stared at the ceiling, thinking about the events that had happened that day.

Patrick could hear Joe moving around their common room and then probably turning on the television since he heard it come to life. He was pretty sure that his roommate was watching a news channel, since he could hear a muffled voice of a lady news reporter from the TV, and that was when he heard her mention the name of his plane.

The lady reporter said that a technical failure was the reason why the plane had crashed into the sea. None of the passenger, the staff and pilots of the plane had survived, unfortunately.

Patrick then heard Joe’s heavy footsteps, thudding against the wooden floor of the short hallway, coming nearer and nearer to his room, and then his bedroom door had burst open, revealing his shock-stricken best friend, his eyes wide and his face a little paler than usual as he asked Patrick, “What was the name of your plane again?”

As Patrick continued staring at the ceiling of his bedroom,pointedly ignoring Joe’s question to him, he had pictured out dozens of bloated bodies in his head, still stuck inside the crashed plane underwater, with their luggage and whatnot floating around them, and fishes or whatever sea creatures swimming through the area, probably even starting to eat tiny bits of the corpses.

If he hadn’t noticed the change in the passengers’ digital timers above their heads, he would’ve been there—cold, dead and bloated as well.


	5. A Letter From Decaydance.

Patrick and Joe had never really talked about the airplane crash.

A few days after the incident had happened, sure, it was really awkward at first, especially since the accident was all over the news every time they would turn on the television, but after a while, the tension had been diffused somewhat. It was sort of a silent, unspoken agreement between them, but Patrick was certain that Joe had given him a closer eye since then.

Honestly, Patrick felt a little annoyed about it, but he knew that his roommate was only looking after him. He was glad that Joe hadn’t forced him to talk about it. For sure, Joe had a lot of questions, and Patrick was grateful that Joe hadn’t demanded him for any answers.

Telling his mom that he couldn’t come home for Christmas or New Year’s or whatever occasion was the worst. Patrick had called up his mom, explained that, due to some reason, flying had kind of terrified him now (he didn’t dare mention that he was supposed to be one of the passengers of the plane that had crashed; he might give his mom a heart attack), and that he probably wouldn’t be going back to Chicago in a while since he was busy in California. The latter part was a lie though, but Patrick had no choice but to do it. He didn’t want his mom and his siblings to get so worried of him.

Since the incident, Patrick didn’t like going out of the apartment that much anymore. To him, leaving the four walls of their shared apartment only meant one thing: he would be seeing the digital timers above strangers’ heads again, which would only remind him of those times when he wasn’t able to do anything to help people who were about to die. Patrick had just allowed them to face their unfortunate fates, even if he knew that he could’ve done something— _anything_.

Going out and roaming the streets of L.A. and seeing those blasted timers again would only remind him of the times when he had been a _selfish_ and _stupid coward_. So, without any second thoughts, Patrick had stopped his street gig and decided to just stay in his bedroom all day for weeks, fiddling with his MacBook.

Joe had been really worried of him for the first few weeks, standing by the doorway of his bedroom with his arms crossed on his chest and a concerned expression on his face. “You’ve got to work, man,” Joe told him one afternoon in the middle of January, his eyebrows knitted together. “I can’t understand why you just stopped playing around L.A. You’ve got an amazing voice, and the money wasn’t that bad, right?”

“It’s not the money, Joe,” Patrick had answered in a bored voice, his eyes not leaving the screen of his MacBook, trying not to roll his eyes on what his friend had just said. He was messing around in GarageBand, as usual. He had his headphones on, but Joe’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the music. “I just decided not to perform in the streets anymore. I’m tired.”

 _That_ was an extremely lame excuse, and Joe saw through that, most probably. He knew Patrick all too well, to the point that it creeped Patrick out.

Patrick wasn’t tired of playing music in the streets; he actually _loved_ performing around the city, seeing those faces of the people who stopped for a while to listen to him sing—those people who bothered giving some of their precious time to him just to watch him perform with his guitar, and even gave him some money afterwards as a tip.

He was happy as a street musician for years of staying in L.A.… but things had changed.

Things would never be the same again.

Silence enveloped them in the bedroom, almost deafening, except for the tinny music coming out from Patrick’s headphones. Patrick could almost hear Joe’s mind working, the hypothetical gears in his head moving, thinking of some kind of plan to help him out even if Joe knew that Patrick wouldn’t listen to him and would most likely refuse any offer that he would give him.

Patrick was a stubborn asshole. He knew that himself, and he had always admitted that.

“What about working in the record store around the corner?” Joe suggested, raising an eyebrow at him as he scratched the growing stubble on his chin.

Patrick had thought of doing that a week ago, since he loved records and music anyway, plus he and Joe had a friend working there named Ryan Ross so it wouldn’t be too lonely if he would actually be hired in the store, and that it wasn’t really far from the apartment, but Patrick had already made up his mind. He would never leave the apartment unless it was necessary.

“Come on. I’m fine, Joe,” Patrick assured him, sighing as he pulled his headphones off and pausing the music that was playing. He looked over at the Jewish man standing on his doorway. “I’ll think of something to earn money. Don’t worry about me too much.”

Based from his friend’s actions, Patrick felt that Joe was about to say something to him, but then it seemed as if he had changed his mind on the last second and shook his head to himself. “Okay, I’ll stick to your word, man,” Joe said, raising his hands up in defeat with a laugh. “Just trying to help here as your buddy.”

“I know. Thanks, Joe. You’re a good friend.”

 

*~*

 

Months had passed and their lives went on; Joe’s band had gotten better and his relationship with Marie had gotten stronger than ever, while Patrick was… well, _Patrick_. Patrick had never really taken his mind off the airplane incident completely, even after the news about it had died down already. To him, that tragedy was stuck in the back of his head, just poking his subconscious in a daily basis to haunt him forever. He wondered if he would ever get over it at all.

January had soon ended, and then came February, a month Patrick had been dreading to arrive, and there was only one reason why: _Valentine’s Day_. Sure, he was over the fact that he and Anna had broken up years ago, and he was certain that he wouldn’t want to get back together with her after everything that had happened, but he couldn’t help but feel _extremely_ lonely and alone that day. Being single had its perks, but Patrick found out pretty quickly that it kind of sucked being one in times like that.

While every couple around the world was having the time of their lives (read: most likely _sleeping together_ ) with their other halves, Patrick had locked himself up in his room and _tried_ distracting himself with John Cusack movies and boxes of pop tarts all day.

Later that month, Patrick then decided to start web designing online—a newfound skill of his—for him to earn even if he was in his bedroom all day, and even posted some videos of himself covering a few songs with his acoustic guitar just for fun. Though there were a lot of positive feedbacks coming from a handful of people who had watched his videos on YouTube and who had actually subscribed to his channel, Patrick still felt like something was missing.

Performing around Los Angeles had become a small yet vital part of his life, and abruptly not doing his street gigs anymore made Patrick feel like… he wasn’t himself. Sure, he had a valid reason why he shouldn’t go back to that kind of job anymore, but he couldn’t help but miss it.

Joe had been really supportive of Patrick’s decision in working again, somehow, even if he knew very well that Patrick’s online job wasn’t really much compared to his previous short-lived street gig. Patrick was sure that Joe was really glad that he was starting to get back on his feet again, _actually_ doing work instead of just moping around in his room, and that he was singing again.

“I’m sorry if my singing woke you up,” Patrick told Joe one morning in March when he had seen his roommate emerge from his bedroom with a long, sleepy yawn. He thought that Joe woke up because of his voice in the middle of recording his cover of Buddy Holly’s _‘Everyday’_ in their shared living room for his YouTube channel.

Instead of an irritated sigh or a nonchalant nod that Patrick had expected from Joe, his roommate surprised him when Joe had laughed. Like, _really loudly_. “What the fuck, Patrick?” Joe said, more of amusement instead of anger, which made Patrick raise his eyebrows in surprise at him. He definitely had _not_ predicted that kind of reaction. “Man, I’m actually really glad that you’re singing again. That’s how I know that you’re feeling better now.”

Well, that answer was the least that he had expected to come straight out from Joe’s mouth.

But, for Patrick, he hoped that what Joe said was true. He just wasn’t really sure yet.

Patrick thought that perhaps his friend didn’t notice that he hadn’t said anything about that, or maybe he did but he chose not to comment on it. Joe, instead, had smiled at him on his way to the couch. “Were you recording that?” he asked Patrick.

“Yeah,” Patrick replied, focusing his eyes back on his MacBook screen, fumbling with his glasses before putting them back on. “Aside from web designing, I made a channel on YouTube where I could post covers of songs I do for, you know, fun.”

“You really can’t think of any side-hobby that doesn’t relate to music, huh?” his friend teased good-naturedly, chuckling. Though Patrick was very aware of this, he still couldn’t help but blush to a deep shade of red. “Music seriously runs through your veins, Patrick.”

He wasn’t sure of what to reply on that, but there was _something_ —a glint or whatever—on Joe’s eyes that Patrick had noticed. It was as if Joe had something in mind… something that he was thinking of doing yet he had no plans on telling Patrick all about it. It irked Patrick a little since he couldn’t really put a finger on it, that his best friend could read him like an open book while he couldn’t do the same to Joe.

So, instead of stressing himself on guessing what his friend was mentally preparing to do, Patrick had turned his attention back to GarageBand, trying to ignore Joe’s piercing gaze on him.

 

*~*

 

Sometime around mid-April, when Joe had left Patrick alone in their shared apartment for a band meeting, Patrick was in his bedroom as usual, sitting in front of his computer while waiting for a movie that he was downloading to finish. He had just come back from the kitchenette after making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that he was planning to eat while waiting.

Patrick had _tried_ to ignore the fact that what he was doing was _actually_ illegal, but hey, loads of other people had done that before, and he seriously wanted to see the movie since he had been waiting for it for months after watching the trailer. Though he could’ve watched it straight on the big screen instead, Patrick had sworn to himself that he would avoid leaving their apartment unless it was necessary, and he knew that going out to watch a movie wasn’t really important and it only meant that he had to spend more money for the tickets and for parking, so, illegally downloading a movie was the only choice that he had left.

He was in the middle of finishing his sandwich when he had received an e-mail. Putting his sandwich down on the plate sitting beside his MacBook, he opened the e-mail and, to his surprise, it wasn’t from a friend he knew at all, nor was it junk mail that he loathed receiving. The words _“Decaydance Records”_ at the bottom of the electronic mail had caught his eye right away, which he knew was the name of one of the most well-known record labels in L.A.

With raised eyebrows and a hundred unanswered questions in his head, Patrick had read the whole message as thoroughly as he could.

 

 

> _To Mr. Patrick Stump,_
> 
> _Thank you for sending in your videos for the audition that we had announced earlier this month. The executive committee has viewed the videos that you have submitted to us, and it was not much of a surprise that we had liked all three of your videos after watching the first one. We had all agreed that we should not let talented, aspiring musicians such as yourself slip from our fingers. Artists like you must be given the opportunity to be signed in a record label, and we, the Decaydance Records family, are willing to help you achieve your dreams as you enjoy your passion in music._
> 
> _Decaydance Records aims to spread music to the world made by deserving brilliant artists, and you, as what we have seen from your videos, are fitting for such title. And since we would like to hear more of your music, we want you to be one of us._
> 
> _We are hoping to see you for a personal interview on May 15 th in our humble office for us to discuss further about the details for your contract signing, together with two other up-and-coming musicians that we have chosen that you will most likely be working with soon._
> 
> _Chances like this are rare, and we thank you for trusting Decaydance Records to help you in your music career. We assure you that we produce the best artists with real talent. And you, soon, will be one of those._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Peter Wentz III  
>  CEO  & Executive Producer, Decaydance Records_

 

 

Patrick stared at the screen of his MacBook blankly, his brain trying to slowly process what he had just read. His heart was pounding against his chest, his ears were ringing, and he was sweating bullets. He couldn’t believe it at all. He felt like slapping his own face just to check that he wasn’t dreaming this. Patrick couldn’t remember submitting anything to the said record label, nor did he know that they were looking for new artists to sign.

One name crossed his mind almost immediately: _Joe Trohman._

“Holy smokes,” he said under his breath, his eyes wide as he pushed his eyeglasses up on his nose with a shaky hand. Without tearing his eyes off the screen, he reached for his phone on his bedside table and immediately dialled Joe’s number.

He had a feeling that Joe was _definitely_ the person behind this.

Joe hadn’t answered any of Patrick’s calls, and so he decided to text him instead, thinking that his best friend was probably still stuck in the middle of their band meeting and he didn’t want to cause any trouble and interrupt them.

 

 

 

> _To: Joe Trohman [10:42 AM]  
>  Message: Did you send some of my videos to Decaydance?_
> 
> It wasn’t until noon when Patrick had received a couple of text messages from his best friend.
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:16 PM]  
>  Message: im guessing that ur chosen? yay! congrats big boy!_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:16 PM]  
>  Message: and yeah i did send them. wanted to help u out so._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:16 PM]  
>  Message: thats my advanced bday gift to u by the way. wanted to surprise u. hope u like it buddy. ;)_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:17 PM]  
>  Message: and hey ur welcome! :p_

 

 

Patrick couldn’t help but smile at the thoughtfulness of his roommate. Though he was surprised that Joe had sent the record label his videos _without his permission_ (and he was wondering why he wasn’t even mad the slightest bit at Joe), Patrick already had a feeling that only _him_ would pull a stunt like this since he knew that the Jewish man had given a closer eye on him since the airplane incident… but he had never expected that _this_ was what Joe had planned on doing.

But, Patrick knew that he would forever be grateful in having Joe as a best friend… even if Joe was a huge pain the ass sometimes. Scratch that— _all the time._

 

 

 

> _To: Joe Trohman [12:18 PM]  
>  Message: I’m kind of upset that you didn’t tell me, but wow. This is amazing. Thank you, Joe-Troh! You’re the best!_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:19 PM]  
>  Message: awwww r u finally ready to confess ur love for me? ;)_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [12:19 PM]  
>  Message: Oh wow, you’re such an ass._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:20 PM]  
>  Message: nah i bet u want to have my ass ;)_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [12:21 PM]  
>  Message: No way. That’s just disgusting, dude._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:21 PM]  
>  Message: but u love it anyway_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [12:22 PM]  
>  Message: Not even a little bit, you pig. Go bug Marie, not me._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [12:23 PM]  
>  Message: wow man u broke my heart  </3_
> 
> _To:  Joe Trohman [12:23 PM]  
>  Message: No, I didn’t. :P_


	6. Meeting Pete Wentz.

“You need an outlet, Patrick.”

Patrick’s head had snapped up so fast that he was surprised that he hadn’t managed to give himself a whiplash. He had  _ just _ noticed that Joe was standing by his bedroom doorway, the Jewish man’s arms folded across his chest as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. He wasn’t sure when his best friend had even gotten there, or how much he’d seen when Patrick had his guard down, sitting there on the floor with his back against the edge of his bed, his MacBook on his lap and quietly working on a new song that he was trying to finish on GarageBand.

“Learn how to fucking knock, Trohman,” Patrick glared at Joe before fixating his eyes back on the screen of his MacBook. To his utter disappointment, he didn’t feel like working on the song anymore. His music muse seemed to leave him the moment Joe had interrupted his thoughts.

_ Just great. _

Joe didn’t say anything and, instead, moved to sit on the space next to him. Patrick quickly shut his MacBook off, giving Joe another glare. Even by now, his roommate should’ve figured out that Patrick didn’t like being disturbed whenever he was in the middle of writing a song, and that he didn’t like letting other people see his work before they were completed.

Sure, most musicians were used to listening to scratchy, unfinished demos before finally coming up with the final product after mixing and editing and mastering, but Patrick—being the utter _ perfectionist _ he was—was more comfortable with sharing his finished work to people.

“Come on, Patrick, I know that you’re doing so well now,” Joe began, sighing tiredly as he brought his fingers up to his temples. Patrick still held his glare on him. “But you’ve seriously got to do something else aside from staying in here all the fucking time.”

“I’m perfectly  _ fine _ , Joe,” Patrick insisted, putting his MacBook on his bed. For goodness sake, he was  _ twenty-five years old _ already (his birthday had just passed a few days ago, and to him, it still felt surreal celebrating it with a few of his closest friends). He was an adult who was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and he knew exactly what he should do with his own life. Joe didn’t have to tell him anything.

He thought of strangling Joe with his bare hands, just for the hell of it, but he shook his head inwardly and shrugged the weird idea off. “Don’t worry about me,” Patrick assured him. “Besides, I’m working as a web designer, so it’s only logical for me to be working at home.”

“You’ve got to go out some time, man. Live a little,” Joe told him, and Patrick responded with a sigh in irritation, pulling his legs up and hugging his knees closer to his chest as he glared at his bare toes. He was  _ not  _ going to have this conversation with Joe.  _ Not yet. _

“I can do whatever I want, Joseph. You’re not my mom.”

Another sigh escaped Joe’s lips. “True, but hey, let’s face it, you  _ can’t _ stay here  _ forever _ .”

Patrick didn’t say anything and continued looking at his toes. He was well aware that he was acting like a spoiled child, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t even look at Joe straight in the eyes, couldn’t even tell him that  _ “you’re fucking right about what you just fucking said and I know that I need an outlet to let this all out and I can’t fucking admit that to you because I think I’m fucked in the head and I might shit myself if I go outside right now because I’m fucking scared” _ .

“Try doing something else to distract yourself, dude,” Joe suggested, cracking his knuckles. His eyes were on Patrick’s wall clock, watching the seconds tick away. “Maybe, aside from singing and song writing and web designing, you can… I don’t know, sketch something? Perhaps write a blog or whatever shit? Your choice. Just fucking do  _ something else _ .”

Silence had loomed over them. Patrick was weighing the options in his head.

It felt like hours had passed before Joe had decided to break the ice, placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and then repeated in a whisper, “You need an outlet, Patrick” before leaving the bedroom without any other word. All Patrick did was stare at Joe’s retreating back guiltily, feeling a little foolish of himself when he was gone. He was certain that Joe knew that he was hiding something from him, but he just still couldn’t tell him why he chose to lock himself up in his room instead of going out and do whatever people his age do.

He felt  _ pathetic _ .

 

*~*

 

About week and a half later, just a few days after his birthday, he finally did it. Patrick  _ actually _ took Joe’s advice and did it.

 

 

> **Blog Post Title:** **_Relatively new to the blogging world; not sure of what to do._ **
> 
> **[02 May 2009|11:58pm]**
> 
> _ After some bit of thinking and (a lot more) pushing from a friend of mine, I have finally considered making a blog of my own just to clear my head and type down these words. A lot of things have been bugging me my whole life, and I’m guessing that I might find some relaxation by pressing these keys. I don’t feel like going to a shrink and talk about what has been bothering me every day, and anyway, I’m pretty much okay with just facing a computer and pouring my secrets out through words. It’s kind of therapeutic. And it’s not like anybody’s going to bother reading what’s going to be here, so yeah. _
> 
> _ Anyway, here’s a little introduction about myself – just to, you know, kind of “christen” this vessel. Hi. Please call me Martin. I’m not just gonna put my full and real name in here for security purposes, and just because my initials are really embarrassing to put together. I’m a twenty-five year old music nerd currently living on my own in L.A. Well, not really. I’m living in a small apartment with a friend named Joseph, but I’ve moved out from my mom’s house already, so that’s something at least. _
> 
> _ Prince and David Bowie basically made up my whole childhood, which is pretty sad, if you think about it, but they’re still my heroes – don’t judge. Oh, and throw in Elvis Costello and Michael Jackson somewhere in there. Youngest child in the family. Got really bad eyesight without my glasses. Not good in socializing with other people that much – which kind of explains why I’m sitting here in front of my computer instead of sitting in an office and staring at the shrink who’s scribbling something on his clipboard. _
> 
> _ Playing guitar, piano and drums is what I do to pass the time, usually. Sometimes the trumpet, if I feel like it. I used to play in some bands before as a substitute drummer, and I also used to go around the streets of California as a street musician until I decided to quit. Long story. Now, I hate the outside world and I only go outside if I really have to. I’m stuck in my apartment 24/7 by choice, trying to busy myself with my work which is web designing, making covers of songs and in experimenting stuff in GarageBand that might be worth listening to. Star Wars and video games also make me happy. _
> 
> _ I know that it’s probably unhealthy and it isn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made, but I still haven’t gotten a check-up to the doctors yet and I’m thinking that I might be suffering from insomnia or something. I sleep at around three in the morning in most days, not because of my work but because I just can’t sleep right away, and wouldn’t be out of bed until noon even if I’m already up by six. _
> 
> _ I don’t really have anything else to say about my life since it’s really boring and uninteresting, but I could say that I know too many dead people already. Not that I see them, but sometimes, remembering that I’ve known or just practically interacted with these dead people always give me the creeps. I really am hoping that this blog, even just for a little while, could help me forget about the dozens of things running through my head though. I mean, no sane person would take me seriously if I told them that I know exactly when they’re gonna die, right? Of course, everybody doesn’t want to face the cold, harsh truth even if it’s right in front of their faces already. No one likes acknowledging the inevitable. _
> 
> _ Grownups, maybe your parents or guardian or whoever older than you, usually say that you shouldn’t believe everything that you’ve read in the internet, right? Well, some of them just might be made up stories or whatever just to scare you or make you laugh, but what I’m gonna tell you now isn’t fictional at all. It’s your choice to believe it or not, but here we go. _
> 
> _ The thing is, I do know when people are gonna die. Like, the exact years, months, days, hours, minutes, and even seconds that they’ve got left before they die – I know them. Sometimes, I kind of guess how they’re gonna die. Don’t laugh, because I’m not even joking. It’s hard to believe, I know. You might think that I’m some fake palm reader or some phony psychic or something more ridiculous than that, but that’s not it. _
> 
> _ The truth is, I know everybody’s time limit in this world, because I can see all of them, floating just above your heads, like digital time bombs just waiting for the right time to explode. Have you ever played the Sims game? Seen those green diamonds above the characters you’re using? The timers kinda look like that to me, but they’re digital numbers instead, counting down the remaining time that people have left.  _
> 
> _ I know, nobody’s gonna believe me – no one ever has – because I’m the only person who can see the timers above people’s heads. I’m not crazy, really, but in some days, I’m convinced that I am. But, seriously, I’m telling the truth. _
> 
> _ If you’re reading this, again, it’s your choice to believe me or not, but I do hope that you actually do. I’m still hoping that I won’t lose my mind… just yet. _
> 
> **_\- Martin_ **

 

 

(He couldn’t help but think of publishing that blog post as a mistake, but he shrugged it off and tried to think of more positive things for a change.)

Patrick woke up early the next day, made pancakes and left them on the kitchen counter with Joe’s name and a note on it, where he simply wrote,  _ ‘Took your advice. I think you’re right. Thanks. –Patrick’, _ as a thank you and an apology to his roommate before going back to his bedroom and finishing the song that was waiting for him on GarageBand.

 

*~*

 

Panic was surging through Patrick’s body at that very moment. He couldn’t stop from pacing back and forth in their kitchenette. He even tried to calm himself down by finishing a whole carton of milk straight off the box and a whole glass of water in one gulp, but his hands were still clammy, his heart was racing, and he was sweating off the long-sleeved shirt that he was wearing. He wanted to pull all of his hair off his scalp.

It was the day that he would be meeting the executive committee of Decaydance Records, and he was  _ really _ nervous for the interview. He was scared to face the outside world again, to see those timers above strangers’ heads on his way to the office and upon arriving there, and to say something stupid in front of the people who would be potentially helping him in getting an actual singing career.

Patrick, admittedly, had  _ always _ felt that way whenever he had to leave the comfort of their apartment. Everything that he would see outside their “home” felt so foreign to him, so strange, so… different. He felt so small in this big city that he was living in. He felt so alone.

“I think you should change your shirt,” Joe had suggested over the brim of his cup of coffee. He was sitting on a high chair by the counter of the kitchenette, and Patrick could  _ feel _ the amused grin playing on Joe’s lips even without seeing them.

“You think?” Patrick snapped at him. Joe seemed unfazed by his roommate’s snippy attitude, and only shrugged as a response and nodded at Patrick’s almost see-through shirt before sipping from his cup again. Patrick rolled his eyes in irritation and fanned himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his free hand.

“Don’t fret too much, Patrick,” Marie told him in a calm voice as she poured some batter on the pan before turning to him with a smile. “They just want to talk to you for the contract signing. And they said that they like your videos, right? You’ll be fine.”

Patrick slightly pursed his lips, knitting his eyebrows together as he leaned his hip against the counter. “But you two already know that I’m not particularly good around new people,” he said, sighing softly, folding his arms across his chest and wincing slightly as the material of the damp long-sleeved shirt he was wearing had clung to his skin.

“You managed to survive as a street musician for a few years,” Joe said, putting his cup down. Patrick looked at Joe seriously, giving off  _ ‘Don’t you dare mention that one ever again’ _ vibes to him, but Joe seemed to be ignoring the anger plummeting anger radiating off Patrick. “You’ve played music and sang your heart out for strangers—”

“But there wasn’t actual interaction with them!” Patrick retorted, flailing his hands to the air. “All I did was sing and play guitar for those people and nothing else—”

“You’ll do well in your interview, Patrick,” Marie had said firmly, reassuring him as she placed a hand gently on Patrick’s shoulder. This diffused his temper somewhat, and with a deep breath, he had slowly started to calm down. “I’m sure of that, okay? Just act like yourself. Don’t pretend to be someone else, they wouldn’t like that. Just be  _ you _ .”

With a sigh, Patrick nodded, bowing his head down. He saw from the corner of his eye that Marie had given Joe a warning glare before looking back at Patrick, smiling. Patrick didn’t see Joe’s reaction though, but he guessed that Joe had raised his eyebrows at his girlfriend and mouthed a  _ “What the hell did I do now?” _ .

Marie then tapped his cheek twice, making Patrick look back up at her, and with a smile, she said, “Good. Now, go change your shirt. Decaydance is waiting for their next star.”

 

*~*

 

When Patrick had arrived in the Decaydance Records office, there was a woman waiting for him in the lobby who had introduced herself to him as, “Greta Salpeter, Mr. Wentz’s assistant and secretary” after shaking hands with him. He tried really hard to ignore the electric blue numbers hovering over her head, seemingly mocking him and tempting him to look at them, which strangely reminded him of Medusa’s snake hair, for some reason.

“My name’s Patrick Stump,” he introduced himself to her politely.

“I know,” Greta smiled at him. “I was there when the committee had watched the videos from those who had submitted their demos.”

_ That _ made Patrick blush a little. In embarrassment or whatever, Patrick wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he still wasn’t used in talking to people he didn’t know. He was still slowly processing the fact that some people knew who he was while he had no idea who they were. Even after years of being a street musician, he still wasn’t used to that.

Patrick then suddenly snapped back to reality when Greta signalled him to follow her, and he obliged right away, trying not to fumble with his clothes and hair too much. He hoped that she wouldn’t notice his edginess and that he wouldn’t sweat his shirt off  _ again _ before he’d meet the executive committee. He was just really nervous at that very moment.

Greta had pressed the  _ ‘up’  _ button of the elevator, and she had looked over at Patrick as they both waited for the doors to open. Patrick could feel her gaze on him, scrutinizing every bit of him from head to toe. It was difficult for him not to squirm as she studied him.

After what felt like hours of waiting, the elevator doors had finally opened with a  _ ‘ding!’ _ , and they both stepped inside. Patrick silently watched as Greta pressed the  _ ‘5 _ _ th _ _ floor’ _ button after the doors had closed, and he tried not to look so scared when she had turned her head to him. He felt like he was going to burst or something.

“Mr. Wentz expects a lot from you,” Greta told him after a little while, which made Patrick’s cheeks to heat up again quickly. She seemed to notice this and laughed softly. “A shy type, huh? Well, we’re going to have to change that.”

Upon seeing Patrick’s confused albeit still flushed face, Greta went on explaining, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I hope that I’m not pressuring you or anything, but anyway, we’ll train you to be more confident of yourself, bring out the  _ real you _ onstage, Mr. Stump. It was easy to tell that you’ve got potential after watching your demos.”

_ Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. _

And to think that he wasn’t even signed to the recording label yet.

Before Patrick knew it, the elevator doors opened once again, and he followed Greta out. He watched as Greta waved at a few of her co-workers on their way to the CEO’s office, and he couldn’t help but blush shyly when some of them had smiled at him when Greta had introduced Patrick to them, still ignoring the numbers above their heads. But, the bottom line here was that they seemed to know who he was, Patrick thought, and he wasn’t sure on how to react on that.

Greta stopped in front of an intricately carved wooden door and smiled at Patrick. “Are you ready?” she asked him in an enthusiastic voice, and Patrick could only nod as a reply since he was just trying not to burst, and he also couldn’t find his voice somehow. He was starting to sweat excessively and he was so tensed, which Greta seemed to notice right away. “Don’t worry. Just try to charm and impress Mr. Wentz, alright?”

Maybe he could do that.  _ Maybe. _

Nodding once more, Patrick took a deep breath and let out an “I’m ready.”

With one last encouraging smile to him, Greta had gently rapped on the door with her knuckles. “Mr. Wentz? Patrick Stump is here.” After hearing a muffled “Let him come on in, then” from the other side, she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open for the musician, urging Patrick to step inside. “Remember what I said, okay? Impress him,” Greta whispered to him quickly. “Good luck.”

The first thing that Patrick had landed his eyes on upon entering the office was the man who was seated behind the desk filled with piles of folders and paperwork. Patrick was actually surprised that there was only one person waiting for him in there, since he was expecting that a dozen pairs of eyes would be looking at him. But, actually,  _ this  _ was better for him.

Patrick waited for the man to acknowledge his presence. As he waited patiently for the man to finish whatever he was reading, Patrick took in the man’s appearance carefully  _ (“Nope, except for those numbers above his head, you idiot. Don’t you dare look at those.”)— _ suit and tie, raven, obviously flat-ironed hair (which seemed to have been applied with a lot of product) swept to the side of his face, long lashes and dark lines tracing his eyes  _ (“Wait a minute, is he seriously wearing eyeliner and eye shadow?!” _ ).

Truth be told, he looked like a middle-aged man who hadn’t gotten over his emo phase yet.

Patrick then mentally kicked himself, reminding his brain that  _ this man _ was going to be his boss.

The man’s head then slowly lifted, and their eyes immediately locked—brown on blue. He then smiled at Patrick warmly as he placed the folder that he was reading earlier aside, gesturing Patrick to take a seat on the chair right in front of his desk. Greta then excused herself and announced that she would be making coffee for them.

“So, Mr. Patrick Stump,” his boss said his name, the words rolling off his tongue easily as he laced his fingers together on the desk separating them and scooted closer. Patrick nodded in confirmation, that, yes, that was his name, and smiled a little, and the man smirked, holding out his hand towards him. “I’m Pete Wentz, and welcome to Decaydance Records.”

And that was how he met Pete Wentz.


	7. The Best Day Turned the Worst.

The interview with his new boss went… _pretty_ well, Patrick guessed. _Hopefully._

He wasn’t really sure if Mr. Wentz—who had insisted Patrick to simply call him _“Pete”_ instead, since he claimed that he wasn’t _that_ serious with proper formalities and all that anyway—was kind of impressed by him or anything. But, what he did notice was that Pete didn’t seem to mind his unnecessary fumbling and stuttering throughout the interview. Pete then explained to him that he understood why Patrick was feeling a little edgy, and that “it’s normal to feel nervous whenever stuff like this happen”.

Patrick was really glad that his boss didn’t seem like the kind who would fire employees in a snap of a finger. Pete Wentz, based on what he had noticed during their roughly half-hour-long conversation—which was mostly filled with a lot of questions regarding the musicians Patrick had grown up listening to and those who had inspired him to start singing—was a laid-back type of guy, the kind of person who was eager to make people around him feel comfortable.

 _Maybe_ they could get along well when they would finally work in the studio together, seeing as he was also the executive producer. Patrick was really hoping that Pete would still act like this, all friendly and easy-going, within the process of their music-making.

He made a mental note to look up Pete Wentz on Google once he’d get back home.

“It’ll be a long day ahead of you in the studio tomorrow, then,” Pete grinned at Patrick, rubbing his hands together. “But don’t worry, you won’t be alone anyway. You’ll get to meet and work with the other two artists that we’ve chosen.”

“Alright, sir—uh, _Pete_ ,” Patrick laughed nervously, his cheeks heating up slightly when he had realized his mistake. His boss didn’t seem to mind much though, and when Pete rose from his chair, Patrick had done the same.

“See you tomorrow at work,” Pete said as he extended his arm towards the blond.

Patrick shook Pete’s hand and smiled, silently hoping that his palms weren’t too sweaty. He knew that he had probably done enough embarrassment to himself in front of his new boss that day. “Yes. Thank you, sir,” he said sincerely. “See you tomorrow.” And with that, he turned his heel and headed for the door.

Patrick was on his way out of Pete’s office when the door had been suddenly pushed open before he was able to even touch the doorknob, revealing Greta who was carrying two cups of Starbucks coffee and looking slightly flushed.

Thank goodness that Patrick had managed to step back just in time to avoid the door from hitting him, because if he hadn’t, his forehead would surely be bruised by now, which wouldn’t look good on his first day at work. He _tried_ not to think of the worst things that could’ve happened if his reflexes hadn’t worked, but the thought of a bleeding forehead or passing out cold in front of his new boss had definitely crossed Patrick’s mind.

Someday, Patrick mused inwardly with a grimace, his pessimism was certainly going to kill him.

“Mr. Wentz, I’m so sorry, the coffee machine malfunctioned for some reason, and I called up the maintenance but they were taking too long to respond, so I went out instead and got coffee,” Greta explained in one breath, sounding very apologetic as she offered a cup to Patrick. Patrick had politely refused, saying that it wasn’t really necessary, but Greta had already thrust the cup to his hands before he could even say anything else.

 “It’s alright, Greta. Patrick and I had just finished talking,” Pete smiled as he got the remaining cup from his assistant. He then turned to Patrick, lifting the cup to his lips to sip some of his coffee before grinning at him. “I’m looking forward in working with you, Patrick.”

With a small smile in return, Patrick fiddled with the lid of the cup he was holding. “Thank you, Mr. Wentz. I’ll be looking forward to it as well.” And then, with one last goodbye to both his boss and Greta, Patrick left the office.

He was inside the elevator on his way back down to the lobby when his phone buzzed against his leg, and Patrick fished for it from his pocket while sipping from his cup, careful not to burn his tongue with the hot liquid. On his phone screen flashed Joe’s name, and he had immediately opened it and read the text message.

 

 

> _From: Joe Trohman [3:37 PM]  
>  Message: how did it go?_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [3:37 PM]  
>  Message: Better than what I expected it to be._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [3:37 PM]  
>  Message: u got them under ur spell tricky boy? ;)_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [3:38 PM]  
>  Message: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Mr. Wentz seems okay though._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [3:38 PM]  
>  Message: ur boss? u probably took his breath away_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [3:38 PM]  
>  Message: Shush. You don’t know what you’re saying._

 

 

Pushing his phone back inside his pocket, the elevator doors then opened again and Patrick had stepped out of the elevator as a few employees of the record label got on. They all seemed to recognize who he was since they had all smiled at him, which seriously freaked him out a little. But then again, he figured, maybe they were just being friendly to him and his paranoid side was just acting up. His phone went buzzing against his leg again, but Patrick decided to check Joe’s reply later on his way home.

Tossing the empty cup of coffee to a trash bin as soon as he got out of Decaydance Records’ building, Patrick thought of walking around the streets of Los Angeles again—the streets that he used to know like the back of his hand, but now, to Patrick, everything that he was seeing felt so different… foreign. Patrick knew that he had to get accustomed to the outside world once again, especially with his new job as a recording artist.

And then, it suddenly hit him.

For years and years of waiting and hoping that someone would acknowledge his musical talent, Patrick had finally achieved his greatest dream in life: to become a recording artist. And it was all thanks to his silly best friend who had done nothing but take care of him in times of need… and who had annoyed the hell out of him in a daily basis.

Joe Trohman was both a good luck and a bad omen in Patrick’s life. He wasn’t sure if he should be thankful or disappointed with that information.

Patrick then stared at the Starbucks just right across the street from the Decaydance Records building and thought of getting a cup of tea for himself to calm his nerves. He also thought of getting two cups of coffee and perhaps a few pastries for both Joe and Marie as his way of thanking them for their moral support before getting home.

He knew that the couple had done so many good things to him during the past few years that they’ve been living under the same roof. They both told Patrick before that they never minded helping Patrick out as much as they could because he had also been really good to them. They never expected anything in return from Patrick, but the blond musician felt indebted to them. Going home with little gifts for them wasn’t even enough to repay everything that they had done to him, but Patrick was sure that they would appreciate the thought.

And so, he decided to head over to Starbucks, but what abruptly stopped Patrick’s actions was when he had spotted a mouse brown-haired man walking towards the pedestrian lane with his phone pressed on one ear.

The man—who looked a few years younger than Patrick—seemed distracted as he muttered angrily to whoever the caller was. His head was bowed down, but Patrick could see him wearing red plastic-rimmed glasses, and his hair did very little to hide his (quite) large forehead. He was wearing an untucked white button-down shirt with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows, a black tie hung loosely around his neck, and a pair of black skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors to match. A guitar case was hanging over one of his shoulders.

A musician just like himself, Patrick deduced as he eyed the stranger closely.

But the man’s physical appearance wasn’t what stopped Patrick from his strides. What actually stopped him was the sudden change of reading of the numbers above the stranger’s head the second he had stepped on the pedestrian lane.

_Eleven seconds._

With wide eyes, Patrick quickly lifted his head up and stared at the green light in horror, blinking brightly at him as if to mock him for having a secret ability to see people’s life span, before looking around in panic and immediately spotting a yellow Mustang traveling at a speed of most likely eighty miles an hour amongst the other cars running at forty.

Frank’s scream during the accident that Patrick had witnessed with his very own eyes when he was only seven years old rung in his ears—a ghost of his past which came back to haunt him and remind him that he wasn’t normal at all.

Just like what happened to Frank’s accident years and years ago, everything seemed to be going in slow motion as Patrick watched the stranger continue crossing the street, still muttering at his phone and flailing his free hand around and blissfully oblivious of his ill-fate that would be happening in… less than eight seconds. Patrick didn’t even realize what he was doing until he heard himself yelling desperately to get the man’s attention as his legs worked on their own accord. He was running.

Before he knew it, the Mustang that was only a few more meters away from them honked deafeningly—catching the attention of many other people—just as Patrick had managed to clutch his fist tightly on the fabric at the back of the other musician’s shirt.

Patrick grunted in effort as he pulled the stranger with him back to the safety of the sidewalk with all of the force he could muster, making him lose his balance and tumble down the pavement with a groan, almost hitting his head against the ground.

For a moment, Patrick was glad—and he was inwardly rejoicing because, _finally_ , he saved someone’s ass again from getting killed—that he was not hurt except for the sudden pain on his backside after its rather forceful collision with the cement, but his tiny burst of relief vanished a second later after the stranger had somehow landed on top of him and his guitar case had hit him right on the nose and most likely broke the said body part.

The guitar case’s impact on his nose failed his senses for a bit, his head spinning. But, not too long later, after his senses all came back to him with a force, Patrick was screaming in pain as he clutched his bloody nose—warm, crimson blood oozed out of his nostrils, painting his fingers with a horrible shade of red.

Patrick furiously pushed the stranger off him, _fuck_ whatever Red Eyeglasses would say (the other musician should even be thankful of him, because, dammit, Patrick just saved his fucking _life_ ), before sitting up properly and looking at his blood-stained hand in horror.

The stranger, who also looked shocked and rattled at the sudden events, dumbly stared back at Patrick before turning his head to look sadly at the broken pieces of his phone that were left on the pedestrian lane. The Mustang ran over it, it seemed.

“What the fuck just happened?” the man asked Patrick in awe—or perhaps to no one in particular, Patrick wasn’t sure anymore—as he looked around their surroundings before pulling the strap of his guitar case closer to him. A small crowd was starting to form around them, and Patrick just wanted to yell at the stranger and the Mustang driver (who seemed to speed away already, for fuck’s sake) and the throng of people staring at them and just _everyone_ in the world.

The best day of his life so far just turned to become the worst of all in just a matter of minutes.

_When will I ever catch a fucking break?_

Groaning as he reached for his handkerchief from his pant pocket with his free (and clean) hand, Patrick tried standing up, but then he felt slightly light-headed as soon as he got on his feet. The impact of the guitar case made him bump his head on the cement, and Patrick just wanted to go back home already, put an ice pack over the bruise that would be forming later on the back of his head, and stop his nose from bleeding.

Patrick wanted to kick the stranger’s guitar case just for good measure since it was the reason why his shirt had crimson red spots dotting on his chest and why he got a handkerchief with his blood all over it, but felt bad about thinking of doing such a thing and then decided to just leave the man alone to fend for himself. He pushed his way through the crowd who was still watching them, muttering how much he _really_ needed to wear a fucking nose guard all the time, but his discreet departure was abruptly stopped when someone had clutched his arm.

It was the stranger he had just saved a few moments ago, _of fucking course_.

“Dude, thank you for—wait a minute, I know you!” Red Eyeglasses gasped in surprise, and then he was grinning, the smile too bright and his voice too shrilly for Patrick’s liking. Patrick could feel a migraine slowly forming in the back of his eyes. _Just great._

And then his brain started working a bit more properly. Patrick realized that Red Eyeglasses said that he knew him, but the thing was that Patrick had no idea who this stranger was. He was sure that he had only seen this guy today, and it was freaking him out since people around there seemed to know who he was. “Y-You know me?” Patrick inquired with his eyebrows raised, still clutching his handkerchief on his nose.

“Yeah, I think so,” Red Eyeglasses confirmed with a nod, placing both of his hands on Patrick’s shoulders (he was practically holding him down… was this guy expecting Patrick to just leave?) as he knitted his eyebrows together in thought, studying Patrick’s face carefully. “I recognize you, and I know that I remember you from somewhere…”

Patrick didn’t really like a stranger to be touching him too much, but it would very impolite if he would shove this guy off with many people watching their exchange.

Red Eyeglasses then snapped his fingers suddenly, and Patrick could almost see the light bulb that had just went off the stranger’s head. “You’re Patrick Stump!” he exclaimed. “I knew it was you! I’ve watched your covers on YouTube!”

And there he was. Standing right in front of Patrick was his very first fan boy.

The feeling was foreign to Patrick. He was there, looking at the excited eyes behind the younger musician’s red plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, and felt… really proud of himself, like he had done something important and life-changing. Red Eyeglasses was beaming at him, seemingly far too happy to finally meet him as if Patrick was some world-renowned celebrity.

Though Patrick was really annoyed at Red Eyeglasses for being too dumb to not look at his left and right before crossing the damn street (as well for breaking his nose because of his freaking guitar case, of all things), he just realized one thing: _he just saved the life of his very first fan._

Before Patrick had the chance to stutter out anything, a voice had stopped him. “Mr. Stump?” the faintly familiar voice called out to him, which turned out to be from Greta. She pushed her way through the people crowding over them, her blonde hair standing out from the rest.

“Miss Salpeter,” Patrick acknowledged her, proud of finally remembering someone’s name after meeting them once. “What brought you here?”

“Mr. Wentz saw a commotion from his office and asked me to check what’s happening in here. But, uh, this wasn’t what I was actually expecting to see.” Greta was looking at him with wide eyes, taking in his appearance. Patrick winced slightly, knowing that he didn’t look presentable at all. “Oh my god, what happened?”

“Hello, Greta!” Red Eyeglasses greeted and jumped in the conversation all of a sudden, waving his hand at her, which surprised Patrick. _How the hell did this guy know her?_

Greta blinked at the man next to Patrick, and she seemed to slowly recognize who he was. “Oh, Mr. Urie. It’s nice to see you again.” She then looked over at Patrick, who was glancing at both of them in curiosity with his eyebrows raised, before turning her attention back to Red Eyeglasses. “I see that you and Mr. Stump have met, but what _exactly_ happened in here?”

Red Eyeglasses chuckled nervously, sneaking a peek at Patrick. “Let’s just say that someone ran over my phone and my guitar case broke his nose.”

“That doesn’t even explain _anything_ , like, at all,” Greta sighed, shaking her head. Red Eyeglasses just shrugged nonchalantly. Greta discreetly rolled her eyes away (but Patrick managed to see it, making him smirk a little) before fixating her eyes on Patrick, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you both back to the office. I’ll help you clean up.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick hesitated. “I don’t wanna bother—”

“Nonsense,” Greta clicked her tongue. “Mr. Wentz’s two stars need some explaining to do.”

Greta’s words stopped both Patrick and Red Eyeglasses—who Greta referred as _Mr. Urie_ —but with two completely different reasons. The younger musician next to him was utterly speechless (Patrick could feel him buzzing with excitement though after Greta’s revelation), but Patrick was just really confused. _Does that mean that this guy and I are…?_

“Uh, w-wait a second. _What?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably won't be updating in a week because of midterms, but I'm currently working on the next chapter, so don't worry! I'll be updating again Friday next week or something. It'll depend though. Anyway, thank you so much for the wonderful comments and for all the kudos you leave! I love you all, and cheers to Fall Out Boy. ♥


	8. Second Star.

It turned out that Red Eyeglasses was one of the three new artists that Decaydance Records had chosen to become part of their label, with Patrick being the other. If he had to be honest with himself, he was still very surprised— _a little too overwhelmed_  would probably be the best phrase to describe what he was actually feeling—at everything that had happened that day.

Patrick _really_ hoped that he wouldn’t be meeting the other new artist in the same way.

“Hi, I’m Brendon! Brendon Urie,” Red Eyeglasses introduced himself to Patrick with a huge grin plastered on his face, shaking his hand—the one that wasn’t clutching a handkerchief over Patrick’s nose—giddily and rather vigorously even if Patrick hadn’t wanted to shake hands with him (nor did he even want to know his name; Patrick would probably never forgive him—and his guitar case, in extension—for breaking his nose).

_Why the hell did I even save this guy again? Oh, right, because guilt would eat me up again if I hadn’t. Great. Just great, Patrick._

Perhaps Red Eyeglasses—er, _Brendon_ didn’t get the signs—the signs that practically screamed, _“Oh god, please leave me alone in peace”_ —that Patrick was throwing to his direction. “I can’t believe that I’m gonna be signed in the same record label as you!” he exclaimed.

Though he remained silent and had only given the younger musician a small (fake) smile in return, Patrick couldn’t even believe it either, but for a different reason. He felt like _dying_ , knowing that he might have to deal with this guy _every single day_ of his life (which he was certain that he wouldn’t really look forward to) and silently hoping that the ground would just swallow him up whole to escape all these.

Brendon was actually an alright kid, but Patrick would’ve preferred if the younger musician could stop making unnecessary comments to him such as, _“Oh my god, all the blood from your nose that totally messed your shirt up made you look like you’ve killed somebody!”_ and even extremely nosey questions such as, _“Hey, is your hair color all natural or is that dyed? Because I’m thinking of dyeing that exact same color on my own hair! Neat, huh?”_

He knew that he should’ve felt proud of himself since he finally met his very first fan boy (and said fan boy seemed to be genuinely happy to meet him in person— _that’s a good sign, right?_ ), but Patrick was just so tired to deal with everything at that moment.

Maybe getting signed in this label was a bad idea after all.

Okay. Probably deciding on leaving the safety of their apartment was a really bad idea, in the first place. He shouldn’t have agreed on seeing Decaydance’s boss for a signing contact. It might have felt like it was a sweet deal before, considering the fact that Patrick’s previous online job didn’t really help much to pay their monthly bills and that he had always wanted to be a _proper_ musician for his music to be heard, but now it just felt like… a mistake.

And, yes, he was going to blame _everything_ on his roommate.  _Fucking Joe._

Patrick reluctantly tossed his blood-stained handkerchief to the trash bin since he knew that it was useless and it was ruined anyway, plus he honestly wouldn’t like keeping something that would remind him that the best day of his life turned out to become the worst, after all.

He might even have to throw the blood-stained long-sleeved shirt he was wearing, too.

*~*

Patrick felt way better when his nose stopped bleeding like crazy, and the fact that he was _finally_ Brendon-free (Greta had to even bribe Brendon with the promise of buying him a venti cup of Starbucks coffee and taking him with her to buy bagels for him and Patrick, at Pete’s request, just so that he could leave Patrick alone; Patrick was so thankful that Greta was quick to notice his uneasiness around the bespectacled man).

He was cleaned up and checked for concussion by Mr. Wentz’s personal private doctor, Dr.Dallon Weekes. The blond musician couldn’t help but blush in embarrassment when he realized that he had caused too much trouble in one day to his new boss, for letting Greta investigate on the commotion outside the Decaydance building involving him, and for urgently calling his doctor to check on him.

And to think that it wasn’t even his first day in work yet.

_Yup, I’m going to lose my job that I haven’t even started yet.Fan-fucking-tastic._

Patrick was sitting on a leather chair inside Mr. Wentz’s office, feeling small and miserable and aching and uncomfortable, with the doctor sitting right in front of him and fussing over him and his nose. His boss was standing by the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, just watching them quietly. Patrick tried his best not to squirm on his seat… too much.

Brendon’s guitar case was leaning against the wall on a corner of the office, which apparently was somewhere that Patrick could easily see from his position. Honestly, Patrick had been glaring at it throughout the check-up. He had never expected that he would ever hate such a non-living thing for breaking his nose.

Dr. Weekes used a small flashlight and shone over Patrick’s eyes with it, inspecting his pupils carefully before turning it off. “No signs of concussion,” he stated to Patrick with a smile, pocketing the flashlight and then taking out a fountain pen and a clipboard from his attaché case. “Bleeding has also stopped, which is a really good sign. Your nose will be throbbing for a while, but I’ll be prescribing you some painkillers that’ll do the trick. If your nose starts bleeding again, or if you feel dizzy all of a sudden, you have to call me right away for a check-up, alright?”

The doctor scribbled down the medicine that Patrick had to get from the drugstore before tearing the page and handing it to the blond musician together with his business call card. Patrick nodded absently as he read what was on the card:

>             **_Dallon James Weekes, M.D._**
> 
> _Private Physician & Psychiatrist_
> 
> _Los Angeles, California_

  
Right below those words were the doctor’s contact number, as well as his office address.

“If you got here using a cab, I suggest that you call someone to pick you up, just to be sure you’d really get home safe,” the doctor told Patrick. “Just a precaution, you know. I don’t also think that you’d want to use a public transportation right now.” He motioned at Patrick’s blood-stained clothes, giving a small smile to the musician as a way of morally supporting him.

“I can let my valet drive you home, Mr. Stump,” his boss had offered politely.

“There’s no need, sir,” Patrick winced at his boss’ suggestion, looking over at Pete who had raised his eyebrow at him. He had really caused enough trouble to everyone in one day. “I can just call a friend of mine to pick me up. It’s not a big deal, really.” Of course he knew that he can bug Joe anytime; he was the one who set Patrick up in Decaydance Records in the first place.

Pete had stared at him for a moment before saying, “Well, if you insist…”

Dr. Weekes then began packing his things up, neatly putting them back inside his attaché case. “I think my work here is done,” he pondered out loud, grinning at Pete as he rose from his chair.

(Patrick wanted to giggle at the height difference of the two when Dallon was finally on his feet; Pete’s height only levelled with Dallon’s shoulder, but then Patrick belatedly realized that he was even shorter than Pete. _Oops._ )

Mr. Wentz nodded in response, uncrossing his arms before shaking the doctor’s hand gratefully. “Thank you for coming over right away, Dallon,” he said. “I hope I didn’t bother you that much; what happened was an emergency, yes, but I understand that you were supposed to be in a vacation with your fiancée—”

“Please, don’t worry about it,” Dallon said dismissively with a wave of his hand after seeing Patrick who was about to open his mouth and apologize. He chuckled lightly, patting the blond on his shoulder, which made Patrick blush darkly in embarrassment and look away from them. “It was pretty much of an emergency anyway, and I remember promising to you that I’d come over if there are any. Plus, our flight to Tokyo is still scheduled for next week, so.”

“If that’s the case, say hello to Breezy for me.”

“Will do,” Dallonpromised before checking the time on his wrist watch. “I best be off, then. I promised Breezy that I’d come home before supper. Gotta keep my word, you know?”

Pete clicked his tongue thrice, shaking his head sympathetically before clasping Dallon’s shoulder. “You, my friend, are whipped,” he said seriously before smirking at the taller man.“And to think that you’re not even married to her yet!”

Dallon shoved him away, glaring at Pete who started bursting out laughing. Patrick cracked a smile at the faint blush tinting the doctor’s cheeks, which only meant that Dallon was embarrassed of Pete’s joke that caught him off-guard, or what Pete said was actually true, or that Dallon was embarrassed that what Pete said was actually true.

Their bickering didn’t last long, and before they knew it, Patrick and Pete were both waving at Dallon as the tall man bid them goodbye.

“He’s a good guy,” Pete then stated to Patrick, referring to Dallon.

Patrick nodded in agreement, clearing his throat rather awkwardly. “I take it that you two are close, then?” He hoped that he didn’t sound as if he wanted to pry on the private life of his boss.

“Yeah. We’ve been friends ever since I could remember. Sometimes, I still can’t believe that he’s getting married in a few months with the girl he’s been with since we were in college. They’re gonna have a pre-wedding vacation first though.”

Honestly, Patrick could definitely relate to that feeling. Patrick silently thought of Joe and Marie, who were probably lounging around back in their shared apartment, making out in the couch and ignoring some sappy love story that was playing on TV. He then suddenly remembered the time when Joe had told him that he was planning to marry his girlfriend someday, that he was actually starting to save up for an engagement ring, that he was really sure that she was the girl he wanted to be with forever and ever.

“ _‘Until death do us part,’_ ” Patrick remembered hearing Joe affectionately whisper to Marie at the end of his birthday greeting speech for her when they threw a small party to celebrate Marie’s birthday together with their friends in their apartment.

Patrick wondered, as he stared at the thin strip of skin on Pete’s left ring finger that was a shade lighter than the rest of his hand, if someone would ever say such things to him.

“If only,” he thought silently, trying to push away the memories he shared with Anna that he had remembered all of a sudden. Those two words, so simple but held so much meaning, made him wonder what his life could have been right now if only Anna hadn’t cheated on him and hadn’t thrown away their four years of being together as a couple into a trash bin.

_If only. If only. If only._

*~*

Brendon and Greta came back to the Decaydance office half an hour later (and Patrick was still in there since Pete had insisted him not to leave just yet just so that Patrick could try the precious bagels with cream cheese that came from some pastry shop called _Fresh Only Bakery_ — _“They’re seriously amazing, Patrick. I’m telling you; you’re gonna miss out a lot if you don’t try those bagels. They’ll change your life,”_ Pete had told him, and Patrick was immediately intrigued).

The first thing that Brendon had uttered as soon as they stepped in Mr. Wentz’s office was directed to Patrick. He wasn’t really surprised with that at all since the younger musician seemed to be born just to annoy Patrick for the rest of his life.

“Oh, man, you look like _hell_ ,” Brendon gasped, and boy did Patrick not know about that. Patrick’s lips only thinned at the comment and didn’t say anything else, but seriously, he really wanted Brendon to just shut his mouth and leave him alone.

And maybe strangle him _a little_ in the process.

Patrick had actually checked himself on the mirror earlier while Brendon and Greta were still away, just to see how utterly embarrassing he must have looked, and he hated to admit it, but he _did_ look like he killed somebody since there were bloodstains all over the front of his shirt. His nose was taped (and probably slightly crooked) and his blond hair was extremely messy. Actually, it wasn’t even the sexy or anything remotely similar to the attractive kind of messy hair. It was just… a huge mess. Patrick managed to somehow tame it by running his fingers over his hair, but to no avail.

And yes, he really _did_ look embarrassing. And scary, too.

_If Joe couldn’t pick me up for whatever reason, how the hell would I ever get home looking like this? The police might think that I was just fresh out of a killing spree._

Greta was bringing a huge brown paper bag that was filled with bagels which she put down on Pete’s desk upon arrival, while Brendon was bringing two cups of Starbucks coffee, one of which was given to Pete and the other was offered to Patrick.

Again, Patrick wanted to refuse, saying, “But I’ve already drank coffee earlier.” He usually did not refuse people offering him cups of coffee since he _almost_ lived his whole life on caffeine and it was nice to get free things sometimes, but this was _Brendon_ they were talking about.

As expected, Brendon had insisted Patrick to take it, saying that it would be “a _peace offering_ of some sort, after what happened earlier,” which was why Patrick had reluctantly held the cup of coffee in his hands. Greta, however, cautioned Patrick about the coffee, since she claimed that it was a _cup of diabetes_.

“I saw him add, like, three or four packs of sugar in there after I paid for it,” Greta whispered to Patrick while Brendon had his back turned on them, busy scrutinizing the contents of the brown paper bag. “Perhaps even more, I’m not sure. I have no idea why he did it—maybe he just likes his coffee really sweet, for all I know—but I’m pretty sure you’re gonna have diabetes if you drink that one up.”

_Well, that sounded somewhat like a death threat._

Grimacing at the thought of taking in too much sugar (and the fact that he didn’t want to gain back all the weight that he had lost before), Patrick clutched the cup a little tighter. Perhaps he could throw it away later on his way home.

“Or maybe he just wants to secretly kill me or something,” Patrick muttered under his breath, but Greta was standing too near him, so she probably heard what he said since she started giggling next to him. She stifled her laughter underneath her hand, and Patrick decided that it was a rather endearing action.

“He wants to kill you with sweetness, I suppose,” Greta grinned in amusement before glancing at Brendon. “Well, you know what they say. _It’s the thought that counts._ ”

“Oh my god, these are so _good_ ,” Brendon moaned loudly (and embarrassingly, since Greta and their _boss_ were in the same room as they were), which immediately caught Patrick’s attention. He was holding a cream cheese bagel on one hand, chewing slowly with his eyes closed, and carefully tasting the delicious wonders of the bagel.

_Hmm. Maybe Pete wasn’t lying, after all._

Or maybe Brendon was just a really good actor or something.

Pete smirked at Brendon’s comment, looking too pleased with himself before grabbing a bagel as well from the brown paper bag. “Told you,” he smiled at Patrick before chewing off from the bagel he was holding. “These bagels are the best ones you’ll ever find. You should try one and see it for yourself.”

Seeing that even Greta was smiling at Patrick encouragingly as she got a bagel for herself, Patrick shrugged nonchalantly— _hey, no harm in trying, right?_ —and dipped his hand inside the paper bag to get a piece. And when he started chewing… Patrick knew that he this was a glimpse of heaven. The bagel was even more than just _good_. His boss definitely wasn’t lying _at all_.

“Good stuff, eh?” Pete raised his eyebrows at the blond.

Patrick nodded giddily in response, too busy chewing the piece of bagel that was in his mouth. Pete threw his head back at the musician’s answer and brayed out a laugh, making Patrick crack a smile at the sound. He really hadn’t seen any high-ranking boss who was probably earning thousands of dollars every hour of every day _this_ laid-back and who would even associate himself in a similar way with his employees.

He then looked around his boss’ office (which didn’t seem too fancy and intimidating compared to those offices that he had seen on TV), silently watching Greta chew on her bagel and Pete and Brendon who were engaged on a rather animated conversation, and then thought, hey, perhaps being (almost) signed in Decaydance Records was a good thing after all.

He could get used to this.

With a smile to himself, Patrick decided that he was excited to start working for this record label.

 _Tomorrow, a new chapter of my life will begin,_ he mused.

Patrick had finally decided that he should really thank Joe Trohman for helping him get a spot in Decaydance. And he also thought that perhaps bringing some cream cheese bagels for Joe and his girlfriend as a thank-you gift should be in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry that this took so long to be updated! School got in the way, but I promise, I will be updating as soon as I finish the next one. All the love!


	9. Wikipedia is Your Friend.

> _From: Joe Trohman [7:22 PM]  
> _ _Message: yo man where r u?_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [7:22 PM]  
>  Message: hey patrick y r u not home yet? where r u?_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [7:25 PM]  
>  Message: patrick! message me already pls_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [7:27 PM]  
>  Message: patrick pls txt me back did something happen?_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [7:28 PM]  
>  Message: psst patrick im dying here pls txt back_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [8:13 PM]  
>  Message: Sorry, sorry. Wasn’t able to check my phone. Can you please pick me up?_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [8:13 PM]  
>  Message: dude! what the fuck u scared me! but ok imma be there_
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [8:14 PM]  
>  Message: wait i thought u will just ride a cab? or is it a sudden change of heart towards my dearly beloved courtney? ;)_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [8:14 PM]  
>  Message: Just get your ass here. I can’t use the cab. Something happened._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [8:15 PM]  
>  Message: sounds serious. u sure ur ok?_
> 
> _To: Joe Trohman [8:16 PM]  
>  Message: I’m perfectly alright. I’ll tell you when we get home. Still in Decaydance, just please come here ASAP. I would really appreciate it._
> 
> _From: Joe Trohman [8:16 PM]  
>  Message: okie dokie be there in 20_

 

*~*

 

“What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

_Damn, Joe, back at it again with the f-bombs._

“Long story,” Patrick sighed in exhaustion as he climbed inside Joe’s car, getting on the shotgun seat. He mentally cursed at himself and made a mental note not to let Joe, of all the people he knows, pick him up from practically _anywhere_ next time. Patrick even reconsidered for a moment if he should give the Jewish man the cream cheese bagels that he had brought with him.

Maybe he should have taken his boss’ offer earlier. Maybe his driver was a much lesser asshole than his supposedly best friend.

“No, dude, we’re talking about _this_ ”—Joe motioned at the bloodstains on the front of Patrick’s shirt—“right the fuck _now_. I need answers, man.”

Patrick sighed, running a hand over his face tiredly. Joe only looked at him at horror, probably wondering ‘ _holy shit,_ _what the actual fuck just happened to Patrick?!’_. “Look, it’s a long story, alright? I promise, I’ll tell you everything when we get back to our apartment.”

Joe visibly hesitated on turning the car engine back on. Patrick just seriously wanted to punch his nose. “Please tell me you _didn’t_ kill anyone.” Obviously, the “ _or else I’m not driving you anywhere without an answer and I’m fucking calling the police_ ” went unsaid, but Patrick knew that Joe could be really paranoid sometimes, perhaps even more paranoid than he was.

“Joseph Mark Trohman, if you don’t start driving right now, I’m going to kick you in the nuts.”

“As if you can,” Joe snorted loudly as the engine _finally_ came back to life. Patrick turned to glare at him, but Joe just waved it off. Well, at least _that_ somewhat cleared the tension in the car. “No offense, Patrick, but I bet your short legs couldn’t even reach my balls. You also didn’t answer the question, mind you.”

“I’ll explain later. I just wanna fucking go home, Joe.”

“But you still didn’t answer—”

“Just fucking drive, Joe. _God._ ”

 

*~*

 

When Joe and Patrick got back, Marie was at the sink of the kitchenette, washing the dirty dishes from the dinner she shared with her boyfriend. As soon as she looked over them over her shoulder and spotted the pair step inside their shared apartment, she almost broke one of the ceramic plates since she just dropped it on the sink carelessly in her haste of walking towards them right away with shock and confusion etched all over her face.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Marie fussed all over Patrick after she dried her hands with one of the towels hanging by the sink.

Patrick immediately flushed after being caught off guard by Marie’s sudden show of mothering towards him. At that moment, he kind of looked like a puppy being caught after peeing on the rug in his owner’s living room. “Look, I can explain—”

“There’s a possibility that we may or may not be hiding a murderer,” Joe told Marie in a really serious tone as he placed the brown paper bag of cream cheese bagels on the coffee table, and Patrick had to actually stop himself from tearing all of Joe’s hair off his scalp.

“ _Joe_ ,” Marie said warningly, looking over at him with an eyebrow raised as if to challenge him to say anything else before she turned her attention back to Patrick, eyeing the bloodstains all over the front of his shirt. “Patrick, where did all this blood come from?”

The blond simply pointed his nose in response at the same time Joe piped up, “See? I told you! He probably killed somebody for whatever reason and dumped the body somewhere to hide the traces before he texted me to pick him up!”

Patrick was already looking around their apartment to find something he could use to _actually_ kill his roommate. He could probably use that baseball bat they had by the door, or those two lightsabers Joe had placed on the wall above their TV as room decoration.  “Joe, you’ve gone completely _insane_ —” the musician began hissing at Joe, but it was abruptly cut short since Marie was already pulling him by his arm, away from her boyfriend.

“Just ignore him, for crying out loud,” Marie sighed in exasperation.

“Marie, he accused me of killing somebody! You know that I could never—”

Marie shushed him quietly as they got in front of the bathroom, making Patrick keep his mouth shut. “Yes, Patrick, I do know that you’d never do that to anyone,” she smiled a little at him, brushing her hand on his cheek affectionately. “I know that you’re probably the last person who’ll ever lay a finger on anyone. But, Joe is just… He can be a little crazy sometimes, but you know Joe. He’s just… He cares about you a lot, okay? He was probably freaking out the first time he saw you with blood all over you, perhaps thinking that you’re hurt or whatever. Joe may not show it a lot, but he just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

Patrick looked down at his shoes and sighed softly. He might have known Joe longer than Marie, but he knew Marie knew more about his best friend. “Joe’s just too much sometimes, I guess,” Patrick admitted quietly.

“He is, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he cares about you.”

A small smile slowly crept on Patrick’s lips when he lifted his eyes back to meet Marie’s. He really hoped that Marie was right about Joe, because in a big city such as Los Angeles, he would surely need his friends’ support as much as he could. “I’m so glad you’re not as crazy as Joe is,” he told her, and Marie only laughed at that.

“I know, I’m super awesome,” Marie winked at him and Patrick cracked a wider smile. He was very aware that she was right at that. “Now, go to the bathroom, clean yourself up and wash that blood off of you. I’ll prepare your clothes for you, alright?”

“You’re the best, honestly.”

“And now you know why Joe is so in love with me.”

 

*~*

 

> **Blog Post Title: _Dreams do come true, after all._**
> 
> **[15 May 2009|09:53pm]**
> 
> _I just got home from a job interview, which is probably the job interview that I’ve always been waiting for in my whole life. It was pretty eventful, if you ask me. Honestly, I expected that things would turn out badly – which actually happened, by the way, considering that I, in fact, broke my nose and I ruined my shirt with my own blood and my boss and his assistant fussed over me for the rest of day just because of it – but the day was alright, in a way. I would consider it the best day of my entire life so far… if only I didn’t break my nose because of a certain someone._
> 
> _By the way, as I said, I got a new job now – an actual job that I’ve been really hoping for ever since I could remember – so I’m officially saying goodbye to my life as a web designer. I’m not completely saying goodbye to my online life though – shout out to you, YouTube and MySpace – because my boss actually required us to stay in touch with people through the internet. I might even have to make an account in Twitter soon… which might be a nightmare since I don’t speak Twitter at all. But it’s all for the needed support, and for everyone to get updates from me. Everything will make sense soon, I promise. We – along with two other people who also got a job – are just not allowed to say much right now for secrecy._
> 
> _But, the bottom line of this post: I got the job I’ve always wanted, hence the title._
> 
> _About my nose, which is still throbbing but feels way better now, I kinda saved some guy’s life today, and that said guy turned out to recognize me as “the guy from YouTube who does song covers”. I think that was cool. I think he’s the first person who recognized me outside of the internet. That should also sound creepy but I guess times have changed now. He’s also one of the people I’ll be working with starting tomorrow. He’s an okay kid, but he’s got so much energy in him – which I would normally find awesome, but apparently, not on this case – and is just terribly nosy (Nosy… sounds like nose-y… get it? HA. Okay, that shouldn’t even be funny since this kid was actually the reason why I’ve got a slightly crooked nose right now, but whatever) with everything. So yeah, yay me, I guess._
> 
> _One last thing: shout out to my best friend who freaked out and thought that I killed somebody after seeing the bloodstains on my shirt. That was from my own nose, you doofus. At least your girlfriend had been really cool and collected while she dealt with the situation – unlike you. But anyway, thanks for being the reason for this new job of mine, and you’re welcome for the cream cheese bagels._

  * > **_Martin_**




 

*~*

 

Patrick was quite surprised to receive an e-mail from his boss that night, saying that he had moved the date of their contract signing to a later one since he had to fly to New York and stay there for the rest of the week due to “personal reasons”, which Patrick understood that Pete would not be disclosing. Pete then said that the contract signing was moved to the Friday of the following week, and requested Patrick to wear something formal for the occasion.

The words, _‘P.S. Please don’t forget wear or bring along with you a nose guard as well… for emergency purposes,’_ were added at the bottom of the e-mail, making Patrick chuckle softly. The company inside jokes had begun so early.

Half an hour later, for some reason, Patrick found himself looking for a sturdy nose guard from online stores, all the while munching on the leftover cream cheese bagels. He planned on getting out of his room to prepare some tea for himself before going to bed, but he could hear some action movie playing from the living room of the apartment. Apparently, it seemed to be Joe and Marie’s indoor movie date night. Patrick then hesitated, since he realized that, to reach the kitchen, he had to cross the living room, and he didn’t want to disturb the couple.

“I guess I’ll go out later when they decide to head to bed,” Patrick thought as he clicked on the order button of a nose guard he liked. After putting in his credit card number, his contact number and address, a display window popped up on the computer screen, stating that he would be getting his order in two to three business days.

Satisfied, Patrick was about to turn his MacBook off for the night to finish reading the book that he had always set aside due to his rather tight schedule (he didn’t want to admit that it was quite boring since he actually bought it a few weeks ago, hoping that it was interesting and was enough to pass the time, but it turned out that it was… _less_ interesting) when he suddenly remembered something.

_It wouldn’t hurt if he doesn’t know, I think._

Patrick knew that perhaps he was being borderline creepy and obsessive, but he figured that his boss was probably the kind of guy who got used to meeting people who knew information about him through the internet. All he wanted was to get acquainted a bit with his boss anyway (without the need to ask him anything), and to Patrick, he wouldn’t label this as stalking him. Just… wanting to know more about Pete Wentz through his Wikipedia page.

He typed in _‘Pete Wentz’_ on the Google search bar, and waited until the results came up a few seconds later. The picture featured on the side of the screen was of Pete in the red carpet during an awards show back in 2008. Patrick clicked on the first link that was presented on the results page, which led to the Wikipedia page of his boss. After the page had loaded completely, Patrick adjusted his eyeglasses and started reading.

 

> **_Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III_** _(born June 5, 1979), known professionally as **Pete Wentz** , is an American entrepreneur, author, songwriter, philanthropist and fashion mogul, best known for owning and being the executive producer of the L.A.-based record label _Decaydance Records _, which signed multiplatinum and multi-award winning bands such as_ The Effigy of a Pariah _and_ Your Absent Lovers _…_

 

Patrick was in deep shock. He had to practically stare at the names— _The Effigy of a Pariah_ and _Your Absent Lovers_ —on the screen because he really wanted to make sure his brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. He didn’t even know that two of the bands that got him through high school were signed in the same record label as he was.

_Nope, nope, nope. I’m not gonna panic. I’m gonna stay calm. I’m gonna meet two of my favourite bands soon during my contract signing. Holy smokes. And I’m not gonna fan-boy over them because I’ve got morals. Yes, that’s it. But, fuck, am I gonna hyperventilate._

He wasn’t going to admit it, but he was actually starting to hyperventilate at that very moment. He didn’t even want to know how he would react if he would finally meet these two bands in a few days’ time. Patrick grabbed his asthma inhaler from his pocket and puffed it into his mouth as he continued reading through Pete’s Wikipedia page.

 

> _…and is also known for signing bands and artists that have currently started to become huge names in the music industry, such as_ The Gordian Knot _,_ Shades of Vermilion _and Louisa Rose Allen._
> 
> _Wentz is also known to be the co-writer of many hit singles of different artists. The most notable of his works are_ Your Absent Lover’ _s smash hit singles, “Grandiloquence” and “Through the Obstacles” off their “_ The Current Rave _” album released in 2005, as well as the band’s 2007 hit singles, “Like a Vending Machine” and “Spelunker (If You Catch My Drift)” from their “_ On an Impulse _” album. He also co-wrote the singles off the “_ Thirteen Tracks for the Liar _” album of the alternative band_ The Effigy of a Pariah _which debuted as the #1 album in the Billboard charts in 2008_.
> 
> _Wentz has also ventured into other non-musical projects, including writing, acting, and fashion. In 2005, he founded the clothing line_ Clandestine Industries _, which he also models for_. _He_ _hosts the TV show_ Best Ink _and runs a film production company called_ Bartskull Films. _He wrote the New York Times #1 bestselling books for young adults, “_ Scatterbrain _” and “_ Vehemence: All the Wrong Reasons _”. He also manages a bar called_ Angels & Kings _, which now has branches in California, Nevada, Illinois and New York. Wentz is also the brand name owner of_ Fresh Only Bakery _, a coffee and pastry shop chain known for their world-class cream cheese bagels, assorted donuts and different flavors of iced teas and coffees, which now has over a hundred branches all over the USA alone and over fifty other branches across the globe._

Huh. So Pete Wentz was apparently the owner of _Fresh Only Bakery_. Patrick knew of the coffee shop chain since it rose to fame when he was still in high school, and he had even been into some of the branches located in California and Illinois. He even tried the assorted flavors of donuts and coffees already, but since he wasn’t aware of the cream cheese bagels until that day, Patrick figured that those might be some new additions.

_“You’re gonna miss out a lot if you don’t try those bagels. They’ll change your life.”_

No wonder why his boss was so eager to let Patrick try those cream cheese bagels. He was trying to show them off to his new employees, apparently.

But, well, Patrick could see why the cream cheese bagels were considered “world-class”. They were really good. The coffees in there were also really good, may they be brewed or iced, which was why Patrick got confused why his boss would still want to buy from Starbucks after suddenly remembering the cups of Starbucks coffee Greta and Brendon gave Pete earlier that day. Not to mention the different flavors of donuts that Patrick used to buy all the time from the _Fresh Only Bakery_ branch closest to their apartment until he started thinking of working out to lose weight after his jeans and some of his shirts started to become too small for him. He got even more worried of himself after his check-up and his doctor told him that he saw signs of high cholesterol and too much sugar in his body.

So, it was goodbye to donuts and fast food, and hello to fruits and vegetables and sadness.

Though Patrick was much happier with his lifestyle and his body now, he still couldn’t help but miss the food he used to eat, unhealthy as they might be. He didn’t even feel a tiny bit of regret when he started chewing the last bit of cream cheese bagel as he bookmarked his boss’ Wikipedia page. He then turned off his MacBook and got up from his work desk to brush his teeth and prepare himself to call it a night.

Patrick decided that he would just drink some tea and read the rest of Pete Wentz’s Wikipedia page on the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bands in this chapter—The Effigy of a Pariah, Your Absent Lovers, The Gordian Knot, and Shades of Vermillion—are not real bands, and the albums and singles that are also cited here have not been released. If there are actual bands, singles and albums with the same names and titles as the ones mentioned, please note that the author is not aware of them since she has only intended the aforementioned bands, singles and albums for this story. The members of the bands above, which will consist of the members from the bands that are associated with Fall Out Boy in real life, will be revealed in the succeeding chapters.
> 
> And also, some of the information from Pete Wentz’s faux Wikipedia page in the story is from the actual one. However, some of them have been altered for the sake of the story.]


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